The Wild Flowers Grow
by Isolith
Summary: Their relationship is complicated. They are not lovers – they are not enemies. Yet they know each other – have known each other for a long time. He likes to think they're two dark flowers growing in the same spot of earth. (Raydor/Flynn)
1. Spring Morning

**The Wild Flowers Grow**

_Summary:_Their relationship is complicated. They are not lovers – they are not enemies. Yet they know each other – have known each other for a long time. He likes to think they're two dark flowers growing in the same spot of earth. (Raydor/Flynn) (Snapshots from 1978 to present).

_R:_ M

_A/N:_ This is a multi-fic around a backstory of Andy and Sharon having known each other for a long time. Obviously it does not seem they know each other intimately before red tape on the show but I like the notion of them having a history that goes back father than you realize. So this might be a bit au in that context, yeah. =) Hope they don't seem to out of character for you. This fic assumes Andy's born in 1950, Sharon in 1954; just in case you're wondering about age. Enjoy.

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**Part 1: Spring morning**

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It was the year 1999; and it was splattered in an vivid painting of something intense. It came alive within a breath; a small momentary intake of breath at the sight of her – her eyes burning a path through his skin, cold and detached. It came alive with a silent roar when he registered her intent; the noise deafening in his mind.

She was calculating.

It was a matter of nature; a natural element to her existence. A dark piece of machinery that existed within her body, within the cell bodies of her construction. It was something that resided in her; he liked to fool himself into believing it was a permanent fixture of her dark essence – an endless void inside of her that made up the trappings of her mind. But it was a lie; not only to himself but to her as well. Recall was never an easy feat for him; either streaked with the faded colors of drowning in alcohol or impaired by the horrified images of murders ad nauseum. He had been too preoccupied in the past to comprehend her nature; to understand the small intricate weavings that made the tapestry of her heart. She had been different, once upon a time.

Now; it was a web of conceit and deception. He liked to entertain the thought of being caught in her web, silk and softness luring him into a false sense of security; he liked to think she was slowly spinning him into a cocoon of darkness. He would be unable to move then. She had him ensnared with the touch of her fingers, had him addicted to the vast bottomless sea in her eyes. He entertained the thought she was unaware he was no fly caught in a spider's web, unaware she had entered into the terrain of a dark wolf. He was as ready to devour her as she was to spin him into her web.

She was dangerous to his wellbeing; it hummed with clarity to the sole of his feet and thrummed in his veins, surging through his blood, into the crevice of his being. She was hazardous to his control; wrong for him. If forced to admit the truth; he was just as dangerous for her; he was just as wrong. It was not a matter of the repulsive forces of two wrong ends of magnets; it was not about the kindred spirits of magnetic pull either. It was the acknowledgement that they both struggled with the same little thread of darkness.

Acknowledging the dark parts of himself became like the rush of a waterfall when she was near; she shared that distinguishing property with the acrid taste of whiskey. Acknowledgement was however not enough to stop himself from drinking till he bled darkness; thought alone had never kept him from the bottle of his choice. It was an achievement that had cost as much blood and sweat as had his acquaintance with her. Now it was a matter of remaining sober; an existence that mostly revolved around the need to not drown himself in old habits. He knew his limitations and he knew from experience what would propel him into a nightmare lake of whiskey; being a drunk meant a history of trying to become sober and falling back into the arms of alcohol – a rollercoaster of failures and sobriety. Unfortunately, he had never determined where she fit in the scheme of it all. Her presence would always keep him on a precarious edge; but whether she was the force that kept him from falling or whether she was the reason he fell, he had no idea.

His soul was battered and bruised enough; he certainly had no need for further torment.

Her lips were red; a vivid color that took his breath from his lungs in a forceful drag; friction causing him to snap for air; pressure building and dropping into the pit of his stomach, tendrils grasping round his cock in a too hard unrelenting grip.

He wanted her.

He did not necessarily want her but he needed her; he needed to somehow take back control. He needed to somehow align his existence with hers. They had been out of orbit for a good year. He sometimes liked to think the gravity of their souls meant they always came back into the same plane of existence; once every now and then. Her presence felt foreign however; it always did when he had not seen her for a long period of time. He always felt cautious then; he was never really sure what creature would greet him. He was never sure what motivated her to seek him out; it always brought forth trepidation. Was it mere gravity? – the pull of the dark matter of their souls?

Sometimes he greeted her with warmth and joy; sometimes he ignored her and sent her away. Instinctually he always seemed to sense whether his actions would do too much damage; there was always a small crinkle around her lips that foretold what would be the better course – a little warning system in place for him to rely on. Sometimes he did not bother with the alarms and pushed her away from his life anyway; sometimes he was not ready for their lives to come into planetary alignment.

Equal cruelty was a habit borne out of experience.

Her smile was brittle; a cold spring morning, dew at the corner of her eyes – the morning sun a weak blur on the horizon. Not high enough in the sky to have any illusion of warmth. Her smiles had always been a disconnected fragment from the rest of her; never in accord with her other facial expressions, never in sync with her movements. He always looked to her mouth when he wanted to gather her mood; catalogued whether it was in accord with her eyes or not.

She seemed fragile; the façade of a brisk morning always bore the promise of turmoil within her. He opened his door further, stepped aside and let her in. He restrained from guiding her in, from placing his hand upon her shoulder and calming her down. Experience had taught him it was better to let her initiate contact when her eyes were doused in a faded weak gray. It was better to let her decide what she intended for their beginning.

Her lips parted further, teeth glistening; a blossoming brittle smile. The door closed behind her with a resounding click; it seemed like a foreboding.

Her eyes were neither alive nor dead; neither cold nor warm. They seemed alert; specs of color shimmering with that approach she seemed to take to whatever the world threw at her existence; aloof, detached – slightly bemused serenity, slightly revered disdain. With her it was never simply one emotion; it was never simply a single sentiment. It was always a myriad of conflicting emotions, twirling together in a mash that always alluded to something beyond his comprehension. She was a whole painting in itself; never a mere color or an object – no she was encompassed by such complexity it always left him breathless.

Treacherously his hands trembled when she neared, her gait slow and purposeful; she had always reminded him of a leopard. Shy and sly in essence; hesitant yet forceful and raw – crouching in the low grass of the savanna, approaching an unsuspecting prey.

She was a predator; a hurt one albeit.

It was a notion he liked to pretend was another infinite constant in her; but if forced to truth he would admit she had not always been like this. She had been something altogether different; once upon a time she had been precious and full of warmth. It seemed a lifetime ago; something that might as well have never been.

Inevitably you changed throughout the course of time; inevitably you evolved and regressed; a peculiar lifespan of shedding layers and putting new or old layers on.

She was a hunter now; intent and with perfect aim.

Her fingers landed on his clothed chest, slid upwards and came to the left collarbone. The movement of her fingers – her hand – was full of intent to him; carefully crafted to elicit exactly what she desired.

The slightly breathy air that escaped her parted lips was carefully constructed as well; the full red lips sinister as they neared his own. Her eyes were windows; but never to her soul. Their light, their hue always in the command of what she wanted you to see, of what she chose to let slip pass the barrier of her irises.

Her seduction was forceful only in its slow unfurling; it was aggressive not in approach but in what lay beneath the intent.

Her fingers were soft against his jaw, small drops of drizzle ghosting in through his skin – always so tender when she touched him. Her lips touched his – soft and pliant. Her touch always seemed soothing and so soft it barely felt like a touch. He would be a fool to mistake her approach for hesitant; it was anything but.

It was precisely measured – immaculately planned and carried out.

However much it troubled him; she knew him. Not in the conventional way; not the way his team or his family knew him. She recognized the layer in him that rarely came into daylight; daylight was too precarious for the dark. She recognized the fragments of him that were buried into the dark; only because they were mirrored in her own being.

She knew it only took the ghost of a touch and the trace of a kiss to awaken him; to haul him up from the darkness – to drag him along to her own little world of nightmares.

She knew she only had to let her lips touch his; and he would catapult them into the turmoil they were familiar with – a world that was too familiar to let go – a world of surrender.

His being leaped; sprung forth with the pressure of something being uncoiled upon her touch. Tensile force bringing him into collision with her; rough in movement, hard in approach. Whereas she slithered, crouched and calculated her line of attack, he burst forth in brute strength.

He crushed his lips into hers; too much force to evoke anything but the impression of teeth and shaky breaths.

He anchored his hands easily fitting around her wrists and brought them in a pendulum-wave behind her; too painful to do anything but evoke a small pitiful whimper from her throat – it never escaped her lips but instead he swallowed it – the tone going straight into the pit of his being.

He anchored himself to her; brought them together in an embrace that felt like coming home to something you had forgotten existed.

"_I need to feel empty, washed away by rain,_" she whispered when he let go of her mouth, sliding his lips in a downward route to her bared neck.

He drew the skin around her pulse point into his mouth – the tender flesh seemed fragile as well – keeping it between the edges of his teeth.

She whimpered again.

There was no need for words; he would have told her he had read her broken soul the moment he opened his door and saw her eyes and that smile to accompany the distress. Telling her however would have destroyed it; he knew she never liked to be transparent when she strove for opaque. The problem with that was that he knew her too well; was too familiar with the small nuances of her when she was in a plight. He knew the different shades to her being when she emmerged in beastly darkness; he knew it with his eyes closed. He recognized every little band of different hues and what they meant.

He suckled the flesh deeper into his mouth before he let go; he tightened his grip around her wrists and led her away – tugging her along, one arm going around her waist to guide her.

Yes, he acknowledged the brittle spring morning; watched guardedly as she seemed to pull curtains further away and let slip a little of what was troubling her. Murky gray – her lips parted in slight apprehension. Brittle.

She followed along with him, quiet now and pliant; her body following the motion of his hands. He sat her down on his bed and started unbuttoning the top bottoms of her jacket, slowly slipping the small buttons out, every now and then forcing her eyes to land on him; one hand on her chin. He slipped her arms out of the sleeves and folded the garment before he put it on his commode.

He slipped the silk blouse over her head and it joined her jacket.

He undid the clasp to her bra and put it on the pile of clothes.

Her eyes followed his movements now; distant gray yet a present small smile.

He nudged her backwards on his bed and he followed her as they both slid along the length.

He caressed the curve of her neck, going upwards and behind her ear; he leaned closer and kissed the opposite ear.

His hand travelled down across her chest, going down between the valley of breasts – bypassing them – down her abdomen, the rounded belly before he came to the band of her skirt. He traced his fingers across clothed thighs until he came to the top of her knees; he then slid under the hem and started reversing his trip; upwards, the soft feel of bare skin beneath his tips.

He could feel her shivering; legs trembling; her eyes were steady though, her smile still delicate.

His fingers crept up till they reached the band of her underwear; drew a finger beneath and started pulling the garment down. He let it pool around her ankles; keeping her legs together.

He drew her bottom lip into a kiss, pulling the soft mound into his mouth; one hand under her skirt on a thigh, the other guiding her hands to the bedpost.

The hand under her skirt went upwards and settled between her folds – starting a slow rhythm, fingers circling in a gentle pattern. Brute strength was always a matter of timing; sometimes you needed to take it slow before you unraveled the need for hard and rough. Spring morning needed to be coaxed before it blossomed into a lukewarm day.

Her eyes closed and her head fell to the side; his lips slid down her exposed neck – her lips landed on her own arm; her own lips soothing on her own skin (probably grounding her). He breathed along her collar bone; dipped into the crevice that was lined above – wandered further down and rounded a breast; he circled a nipple before he sucked it into his mouth.

She was still quiet; he knew she rarely made much noise in this mood. She simply wanted to be washed away; into an abyss of only sensation – it rarely heralded words or noises before the end. She spoke with her eyes and mouth albeit her eyes were closed and her mouth silent. It had taken years to decipher her in this mood – he still remembered all those pitiful attempts at consoling her in the past. He had finally figured it was about letting her decide; about letting her spill her heart in her own time; eventually she would tell him the details.

He kept pressure on her breasts, alternating between the two – one hand going into the delicate skin beneath her ear; strands of hair tangling between his fingers. This way he could feel the tension in her neck; the strain beneath the skin when he alternated between different levels of pressure with his other hand; fingers along her outer labia; circling her entrance – rubbing into her small bud.

His hand became trapped beneath her head when she leant it backwards; he trapped one of her legs with his own; straining the seams of her skirt and the underwear still around her ankles.

He nipped into the sides of her breast; grazing teeth across flesh that puckered and tingled; sharp edges that travelled across nipples and caught her tensing.

Her breaths were controlled despite the labored tension in her body; neck an arch, eyes still closed; legs trying to escape the confines of her skirt – one foot slipping out of the restraints of her underwear. He looked up and caught the half open mouth, the pale hands around the wood of his bed.

He pressed harder, quicker; but kept a rhythm of something unhurried – not too hard, not too fast. He suckled her nipples till they were soft again; warmth enveloped by his tongue and mouth. He managed to pull his hands from underneath the nape of her head; his fingers travelled up and down her exposed neck instead; felt the force of her breaths and the motion when she swallowed.

He bit into a nipple, harder than previous, when he felt her hips moving into him. He looked up; her bottom lip in between her own teeth as she came, wriggling beneath his fingers. Yet, she was still quiet, even then.

He nudged her hip and she turned around; eyes clear water before they were hidden into his mattress. He put a pillow below her stomach, pushed the skirt down over her hips and buttocks, down her legs till it was bunched around one ankle. She spread her legs farther apart. Her arms went up towards the bedpost again; fingers tense, one moment grasping around his linen, the next moment open palms.

He quickly dispensed of his own clothing; hand around his own cock when he unbuttoned his own shirt. He was half hard; the trouble with old age. It did not matter; he would get there eventually. Meanwhile, he slid one hand from the small of her back and up her spine, pressure into the muscles of her back – the other hand between her legs once again, finding her swollen. She flinched and her hips moved, the pads of his fingers against her clit.

There was a sound now; a muffled little moan into his mattress. He pressed harder, circled harder – the other hand going into the back of her head, into the tangled mess. She shook a bit; caught in the contradicting tingle of trying to press her center more firmly onto his fingers and yet trying to buck away from his touch.

He rubbed himself against the back of her thigh; flitting his fingers across her clit in the same rhythm.

Another moan; a little louder this time.

He hastened his pace, settled his body along hers – his groin pressed into her left buttock, one leg nudging hers father apart and his lips in between her shoulder blades, breathing steadily as he continued his motions against her clit.

He began to feel tense himself; hard against the soft flesh of her – he began to feel the familiar tension of wanting release, needing it.

She came again; a little noise escaping her.

He settled himself and entered her – hands going under her thighs and pulling her hips further up. She was warm and tight, quivering around him.

He guided her up on her knees, watched as her hands automatically came to close around his bedpost; he trust into her in a slow pace, hands going around her hips and keeping her in solid contact with him.

She had traded silence for continuous moans now, noises that travelled in pitch and vibration; small little whimpers from deep in her throat to louder moans that seemed to be pushed past her teeth with force.

He slid into her with more force; quickening his rhythm, fingers digging into her flesh to find something to hold himself grounded. He pounded into her, the sounds of their groins meeting in between his own now labored breath and her voice trembling with whimpers. Dark hums of pleasure; small little hums that followed one another with almost no pause between them – waves upon waves of breathy tones.

One hand left her hip and went in search of a breast; he caught a nipple in between his fingers, kneading it as he continued to thrust into her.

He felt her contract around him before he heard her cry out; he followed after a few more trusts, his world tumbling into a narrow field of being only aware of his cock and the tightness of space it was situated in.

He came with a groan, a deep rough voice that slipped past his throat – her nipple pressed between the pad of his index finger and thumb.

He slipped out of her, pushed out by her still contracting muscles. He watched as she curled herself into a ball on his mattress, knees practically under her jaw.

He pulled a blanket over her and went into his bathroom. He took a short shower; letting the lukewarm water press into him with more force than usual. He toweled dry and put on boxers. He found a washcloth, wet it and went into his bedroom again.

She was in the same position, taut and far away he imagined. Tentatively he pushed her legs down and apart, cleaning away the stickiness between her legs. She curled into a ball again the moment he left her.

He dimmed the lights and lay down next to her, heaving up a bed sheet to cover him. She had pulled the blanket over herself again; he tugged her into him, curling himself around her, lying behind her.

He kissed the skin just under her exposed ear, let his arm curl around her, curled his own body around the crescent of her shape.

The thing between them; he had never determined what the bond between them consisted of but he knew it was rarely a thing they spoke about. It was not something neither liked to examine let alone talk about; it merely was.

Sometimes it was encompassed by talk; sometimes it was embodied by touch. Sometimes it was a thing entirely outside comprehension. It was a connection that flickered; it was never constant between them. A connection that was palpable one second and in the blink of an eye it was gone. It came and went; fickle as the weather sometimes chose to be.

She quickly fell asleep; he knew the moment he felt the way her muscles slackened, the way her body fell apart from itself and followed his own, uncurling from the tight little ball of comfort. His hands went under the blanket in search of skin, his legs slipping beneath and around hers; arms bringing her body closer into contact with his; her back pressed into his chest.

He lay awake for a long time before he followed her; she would be gone in the morning. There was never really a question of if but only a matter of how. Sometimes she left him without awakening him; left in the still of the early morning light, barely any trace as to her presence. Sometimes she nuzzled into him, woke him with a small whisper – left him with a small smile as she dressed. Sometimes she stayed in his bed and only left when reality knocked; stayed in his bed even when he went for a morning run, still there when he returned, sweaty and out of breath. Sometimes she woke him in the middle of the night; mouthing stories into his skin – begging him to give her some kind of absolution, wanting some kind of understanding.

It was inconsequential – she always left no matter the circumstances, she had her own little orbit to cycle back into, her own life to fall back into. He never felt remorse; it would be pointless to feel sorrow at seeing her go when he was stuck with the same nature – he had never stayed with her either.

Yet; she had been a spring morning when he had opened his door; brisk and breezy – low hanging vapor about to condensate – that inevitably meant she would wake in a twilight composition, eyes dark and lips seeking his in between words of what had led her here this time.

Spring morning meant her separated-husband had once again managed to rip her heart out of her chest, accomplished to once again break her into a thousand small pieces that fluttered in the wind and were never easy to assemble.

He hated spring morning; he was always left with the pieces.

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	2. Dark Creatures

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**Part 2: Dark Creatures**

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It was the year 1978; and he stood on the threshold to a thousand thoughts - shadows falling on the ground before him. Escape was a much sought treasure. Sometimes it crept into his arms and enveloped him in sanctuary – mostly its evasion was an illuminate color that lingered somewhere beyond his fingertips. A thousand thoughts – small little prickly creatures that rushed around in perpetual disagreement inside his skull. A thousand thoughts of discontent.

He was a creature of habit.

It was comfortable for him to be submerged in a thousand thoughts; it was the nature of his being to rely on the familiar. He felt safe in this skin albeit how grisly it gnawed into his soul.

He was a lonely creature.

A skeleton clothed in a familiar skin. A solitaire creature, his silhouette a winged beast that seemed intent on following him; his heart a drab thing that hung in a chest that gave him the impression of hollowness and emptiness – empty but for the thing that thudded and thudded inside him, vigorously trying to bring life into every limb, every little nook and crevice of his body.

He felt as if he trudged through his existence, the world a solid soup of mud: he was being dragged down – further and further into the stench of the mud. In the end it would seep into his mouth, into his nostrils – suffocate him from the inside out – slip into that hollow chest of his, seep into the organ that insisted on beating. In the end he would transform into the same god-awful mud.

He took it all in a stride; with a cheeky grin on his face.

The world felt raw and rancid; his life felt bleary and old – even if a mere twenty-eight was nothing in comparison to centuries worth of torment. He did not care much for that context though. A mere twenty-eight and his life was already a mess; a big gaping hole that seeped and seeped more of his blood while he trudged through another bank of mud.

Thousand thoughts; he contemplated it with ironic distance and a small touch of laughter.

It was the work of a police officer; the work of a homicide detective that drove him into this dark muddy world. There was no denying it; the seedy underbelly of crime had a tendency to eat you alive and then spit you out. He felt as if something had chewed on his soul and then decided not to eat him after all; spat him out, half broken bones and ripped flesh. It amused him; it was the core of his life.

If only he could pretend this world of crime was a novel world; maybe he would be better qualified to see a green lush forest. If only he could pretend he had never imagined the world was this cruel, this sinister. It was nothing new; it was the same mud he had trudged through in his teenage years; the streets lined with thugs and small time crooks – the back alleys alive with trafficking of whatever the heart desired.

It was the essence of the thousand thoughts in his mind; the reason it drew him into this life, the reason he might begrudge his existence but never his resolve. Determination had never been a doubt; it was a fortified creature inside him – made him strive through the mud, grin alike that of a wolf.

He sighed; he was plastered – drunk to the brink of his toes, to the ends of his black hair.

He grinned in spite of himself; sometimes he felt his existence was a big fat joke the universe had decided to play on him. He was so drunk everything turned to mud in his head, so drunk he started contemplating everything in that darkly despaired mode of humor that he found morbid when he was sober.

If only he lost the faculty of his mind and his body when he drank too much; but no. No, he remained articulate – he remained able to saunter up to the bar and order another glass; never once swaying, never once betraying his alcohol-doused brain. Sometimes it was a blessing – sometimes it was dangerous.

If only he did not feel overwhelmed by both despair and lust the moment his consumption reached a certain mileage. Steadily drinking was easily managed but consuming more than necessary turned that hollow chest of his into something entirely different, turned his silhouette into another creature; creatures liked company in the dark sometimes. He could almost hear his own hollow chest howl.

He had roamed through the ballroom twice now; the gait of a stealthy wolf – too engraved in habit to not thread without this stride. He had left the pack of brethren wolves back at a table; left his partner and other detectives to stare into their own drinks as they contemplated going home. Usually this little event brought the bigger wolves out – there was nothing better than to watch the fresh-faced, new-coming rookies upfront; laugh at their ignorance, impress them with rogue tales of heroisms.

There was not a lot to pick up from this sad bunch of rookies, however. The majority was male; he had yet to see one new officer that resembled a female being. However drunk he might be there was always a certain degree of callous smugness in him; he craved challenges and not easy pickings. He was choosy, his comrades would say.

He sighed; the ball room was as empty as his chest; nothing to bring forth any kind of flames within him.

Grudgingly he went outside; a sight on fresh air and a clear head. Clarity would maybe convince him to just go home and sleep.

He stumbled across her quite by accident; she was standing with a bottle of wine in her hand, drinking from the neck, unsteady on her feet – high heels looking dangerous for her balance. Someone had draped a LAPD police jacket across her shoulders and she stood out in the rain, hovering and trembling.

The sight of her was in stark contrast to the drizzle of rain; alone by the light of a lonesome streetlamp. Her figure cast a thousand small shadows, dancing and light on their feet. Mesmerized he watched her lift the bottle and sip – her pale face was hard to distinguish from marble.

Senses suddenly heightened he approached her, interest piqued.

Her eyes were encased in smudged mascara, her hair hung in wet dark tresses that were slick against her neck, against her cheeks – tumbling into the collar of the jacket. Her lips were painted red. Her lipstick was the only thing on her that seemed to be still immaculate; not smeared but still perfectly applied to her lips.

Her eyes were opaque; surrounded by so much darkness – the makeup framing them. If he had been sober he would have likened her to a raccoon but in his addled mind she looked like a familiar creature; another silhouette that seemed weary of the world. A lonesome wild creature.

Wild indeed; her eyes lightened upon him like thunder the moment he came into her view. He would not have been surprised if she had bared her lips and flashed sharp teeth at him. Gray eyes set in stone regarded him almost with an undertone of boredom; a little insect fluttering past her existence – his presence did not warrant much consideration.

But she kept her gaze on him, followed his movement with a precision that spoke of something calculated. She sipped from the bottle neck again; eyes unfazed by the rain. She was still shivering he noted; up close he saw how it was an uncontrollable reaction. That shiver you try to put a lid on, that shiver that has a heart of its own and slips through your body without consent.

Up close she appeared a bit wilder, more dark. Up close he was able to detect the small flickers of unrest in her eyes; the minute tightening of her lips, pressing together. The tremble of her fingers around the bottle, pale as they went around the flask green, the hesitant tilt to her head. The scuffle of heeled feet, shoulders trying to crawl further into the protection of the jacket.

Up close he recognized the bare naked distress she was trying to hide.

He lit a cigarette, blew out smoke and watched the tendrils of the white vapor curl around in front of their eyes.

He slid his lips along her cold jaw, felt the anticipated tingling skin beneath his mouth, wet and cold. He whispered a few words into her ear, his voice a rumble.

He heard the small intake of breath, stepped back and surveyed the slightly parted red lips – the surprised look of awakening in her eyes. Congratulated himself as he saw that little tint of boredom be replaced with interest; saw as the small annoying insect transformed into an entirely different creature. Sometimes predators hunted together; he smiled at her.

In a short moment they were in the back of a cab; her small form nestled into his side – still shivering as he ran his hands up and down her arms, trying to bring forth some warmth – trying to bring forth some kind of connection by way of touch.

Before long he had them booked into a hotel; the fluorescent sign outside detailing the exact dingy context of their room – the rough wooden bed, the lumpy mattress, the walls where painting peeled and looked ghastly. The weak light bulb on a rickety nightstand; the room was bathed in the glow of faded night, shadows everywhere his eyes wandered. It had a dreary sinister hue.

Her eyes danced with shadows as well.

The LAPD jacket fell to the floor the moment they crossed the threshold; he closed the door behind them – deadlock on. Somehow she managed to stagger backwards; his eyes were locked on the small ankles in the high heels, they still seemed so unsteady. It garnered his attention, pale legs and black heels on the route to the bed further inside the room.

Looking up he caught the glint of dare in her eyes; the shadows filled with amused observance. She was drunk; he knew that from her walk and the precarious hold on the wine bottle but she seemed poised and alert. However drunk she was there was still an air of precision and design to her.

Grinning he shed his own jacket, kicked his shoes off and stalked towards her – they tumbled unto the bed; the hard compact of the thin mattress unnoticed – clothed and wet as they grounded against each other, impatient mouths lacking technique, their hands cold and unsteady as they tried to roam across the span of unfamiliar bodies.

Her dress was mocha colored, wet spots of rain on it – the texture felt too soft beneath his fingers; expensive. It was inconsequential; a mere thought in the back of his mind as he ripped the zipper in the back down, possibly grazing the metal of the zipper into her skin as he forced it down. He threw her heels down onto the floor, flung the dress as well.

She was breathing heavily; small body seeming even more fragile beneath him.

Her fingers forgone unbuttoning his shirt; instead she ripped it apart; her teeth shining as she ripped one button and then the next.

His hand reached out to the bottle of wine on the floor; drowning the last remnant.

Her underwear matched; lavender border in between deep marine. It felt too soft between his fingers as well; usually underwear never registered in his mind, usually it was never in color. It was always black, white or some shade of brown. It was another little tidbit that he catalogued in the back of his head.

Her hands flitted to his belt, quickly undoing belt and button, pants pushed down before he could think about removing her fancy underwear.

Everything felt like a rush; a rush of lust, a rush of dizziness; a rush of existence.

He was aroused; he wanted to fuck her – only his cock was severely behind his brain, severely behind the rest of his tingling body. Her hands slipped around his limp cock; warm but not eliciting anything but embarrassment.

Shit.

The problem when he consumed just more than necessary; it was like playing roulette with his cock. Sometimes it worked; most times it lagged behind. Sometimes he only needed a little time to catch up. He gripped her wrists and pulled them away from him; one hand almost easily fitting around her two small hands – the other went under the band of her underwear; no foreplay before he plunged two fingers inside her.

It was a rush as well; a rush to simply feel and simply explode. It lacked the defining quality that would have made this anything but awkward; lacked an air of subtlety and suave persuasion.

He let go of her hands and tried to push her underwear down but suddenly she slapped his hands away, a knee lodged into his abdomen and shoved him into the mattress. She bolted from the bed and ran into the toilet. He had but a second where he wondered; then he heard the sounds of retching.

He flopped back down unto the bed, heaved his boxers up and stared at the ceiling. A ceiling not unlike his state of mind; holed and cracked – painted in different shades of brown. It looked ghastly.

"_You alive in there?_"

There was no answer.

He cursed – now he felt obligated to go check on her. He hated the stench of vomit. He pushed up from the bed and stumbled to the door into the bathroom, not too steady on his own feet. He clenched his jaw as he approached the opening; tried not to breathe.

She looked pathetic, hanging over the probably less than clean toilet seat, hair a mess of strands, small naked body only covered in her underwear. She seemed to be alternating between crying into the toilet and dry heaving; he stepped a little closer. If the roles were reversed he would've liked the other person to make sure he didn't pass out and drown in his own vomit.

"_Hey,_" he paused; he had no clue what her name was.

She hiccoughed; a thing caught between a half pathetic laugh and a sob.

He knelt next to her, cautious. He rubbed her bare shoulder blades, the skin felt cold. He noticed the raw mark along her spine; where the zipper had grazed along in a line of redness. Her skin felt soft; softer now than before.

"_Don't… worry…,_" she managed to say, her voice raspy in between heavy inhalations of air, "_I'm – I'm alright,_" her voice broke.

"_Sure, doll,_" he rubbed circles on her back, thinking a little warmth to her skin would do the trick. She had stopped vomiting; which was a good sign – not only for him but for her as well.

"_I think I had too much_," she said, her forehead leaning on the toilet seat, face obscured by the dark hair. It was still wet, he noticed – maybe she should towel it dry before she caught a cold.

He stood up, wet the end of a towel and approached her. He managed to lift her head from the toilet seat, the wet strands in between his fingers; he had a thought he was on the course of uprooting the hair from her scalp but it was a bit difficult getting her head turned up without manhandling her somehow – that he was still plastered did not help in that department either.

She immediately crashed into his chest and he quickly slung an arm around her waist. He managed to wipe her mouth; fortunately there was no vomit on her jaw or in her hair. He sighed. He threw the wet towel down; pushed up and hauled her now nearly lifeless body with him – quickly getting another arm around her.

She mumbled something into his chest; lips wet – breath hot.

He rolled his eyes.

He stumbled back into the room, her limp body not making it any easier; finally he managed to put her onto the bed – hastily threw a blanket over her. She was too cold.

He found a glass on the nightstand; it looked somewhat clean but for a small smudge there and here. He filled it with water from the bathroom; sauntered back into the room.

"_C'mon sit up, doll._"

"_Stop calling me that._"

"_Oh, you're conscious – could have fooled me._"

"_Idiot._"

"_Hey-hey – don't bite the hand that comes with water._"

He sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping at his weight; gravity pulling her small crumbled body closer to him. Eyes peeked out from under the blanket; a bit more alive than before. Eyes that seemed even more vivid than possible; he had a nagging thought it was the blasted black smeared mascara around her eyes that made her irises seem so bright in contrast.

"_You'll feel better,_" he negotiated, holding up the glass of water in her eyesight.

She grudgingly sat up; holding the blanket tightly around her before an arm slipped out from between a crack and took a hold of the glass. He watched her take a little sip, then another little sip – before she started gulping down the whole glass.

She trust the empty glass back into his hands and glided back into a curled position.

He went to the bathroom again, filled the glass and drank it himself. Better to somehow prevent a hungover headache from becoming too heavy tomorrow, he thought.

He slipped onto the bed with her, looked around for another blanket. There was only one though, the one blanket curled around her still form. No sheet or extra linen. He sighed.

He tried to gently pry the blanket from her grip but he failed; she had it tangled in limbs and under her body. Deciding to try another tactic; he was freezing in nothing but his boxers and felt too tired to put on his clothes – he tickled her till she relented and let him under the blanket.

It was wonderful; the heat of her body albeit cold had begun to warm the underside of the blanket and he was instantly enveloped into the warmth. He curled the edge of the blanket around his body, mindful not to jostle too much. There was only one pillow but he put his head on it, staring at the ceiling again; she had no use for a pillow all bunched into a ball – her spine felt cold against the side of his abdomen. He did not mind though; in a mere minute the skin would be warm and hot.

"_You're not of those chicks who blacks out and wakes up all bothered, are you? Cuz I don't enjoy waking up with a bloody nose._"

"_I'm not _that_ drunk._"

Her back pressed further into him; he imagined he was a furnace compared to her skin.

"_You don't hold your liquor; who am I to tell whether you'll remember me or not when you wake._"

"_You're a riot,_" she mumbled.

"_Sure am,_" he retorted.

He reached a hand out and turned the little light on the nightstand off. The change was almost miniscule; the room became but a bit different. Light from outside gleamed in through a small window; curtains old and see-through. If anything; shadows seemed even more inclined to dance, flickering as his gaze swept across the ceiling again.

"_Why the rain?_" he asked her; he could tell from her measured inhalation she had yet to fall asleep. Her spine was pressed against his side but there was still a tense vibration to her skin that belay her consciousness.

"_Why what?_"

"_Why were you standing in the rain?_"

"_I felt like it, you know,_" she answered, a faint brogue of something distant in her voice. He found himself nodding. He did not voice his agreement though.

"_I figured no one would bother me_," there was a slight edge of annoyance in her tone now. He was about to reply in an equal annoyed tone when he realized the edge was merely a cover for suppressed amusement.

He felt her move a bit, heard her small sigh.

"_I guess I just wanted to be washed away. You know? Disappear into the rain._"

Her voice sounded hard edged now; he had a thought she was talking to herself as much as she was talking to him.

"_Stupid, really,_" he told her even if he felt he could relate to the exact same sentiment. Would there be a more calm existence than to be washed away in a drizzle of small water drops, feel your mind being washed away till nothing remained but rain. He paused, caught her perturbed breath of ire. He continued,

"_There are easier ways to catch a cold you know._"

"_Oh really._"

He liked the way she drew the syllables out.

"_You could have kissed me a week ago. I practically had snot in my brain._"

He heard her small answering smile.

"_What's your name?_" her voice seemed like a strange element; it did not strike him as weak or timid but more like a low burning ember – a kindle of a flame. A little undertone of sleepiness in it. Muffled under the blanket, or maybe muffled into the skin of her arm.

Her hair was still somewhat wet, tendrils tingling his arm.

He smiled, "_Andrew._"

Somehow this seemed even better than sex; somehow merely lying in a bed on the brink of sleep – another human being warm next to him - was better than a pitiful attempt at drunken sex.

She hummed; a raspy little sound that made him feel even warmer. He imagined her voice could lull him into sleep.

"_I think I'll call you Andy._"

"_My mother's the only one who calls me Andrew._"

She went silent; he could feel the vibration of her breathing; it seemed steady. Cold fingers suddenly touched his arm. Hesitant fingers that slid down the length and wrapped around his wrist – fingers softly tangling with his. He followed her grip and slid his arm over her waist, his body following the motion till he lay on his side.

He didn't mind.

"_You seem different,_" she stated, the tone soft and – if possible – even more sleepy now.

"_Different, how?_" his voice was low, a mere whisper.

"_You just seem… a bit broken._"

He tightened his hand around hers, afraid to answer, afraid his voice would break.

"_I feel broken,_" she whispered, this time her voice seeming even softer than before.

He squeezed her hand again.

He felt her move closer, the warmth of her skin enticing. He edged closer himself, feeling comfort at her back pressed firmly into his chest.

"_What's your name?_"

"_Sharon… ," _she paused in between a little yawn,_"…. just Sharon._"

He hummed.

He could pinpoint the exact moment she fell asleep; he felt her fingers become soft and weak in his hand, felt every little notion of tensile impression leave her body – seeming to form around the shape of his own body. There was barely any tone to her breaths; he would have panicked were it not for the little movement of her chest that signaled the slow rise and fall of her lungs.

He followed her soon after, cocooned into her warmth and the scent of her; it reminded him of wild flowers and rain in the spring.

**/**


	3. Sun Ablaze

**/**

**Part 3: Sun Ablaze**

**/ **

It was the year 1981; and it was a time of contradiction. It was a twisting rod of lightness and darkness spun into a winding helix; light in between the color that pulled everything apart – dark in between the color that pulled everything back together. Ambiguity traversed the lines around him – sparked fluid to flame within him.

Coincidently it was not only the world around but he himself that felt like a contradiction; his being was something that hung on a rope, suspended from a towering tree – he could imagine the branches reaching skyward like gruesome bare blackened hands. The wind was fickle; it pushed him back and forth in a pendulum – forced him to change his direction at every turn even if that direction was but a disguise. He could not go anywhere tied to a tree.

Contradiction made him forge ahead however. He welcomed the feeling into his being with nothing more than a slight hesitant thought – the foremost thought one of determination that hung onto him like glue; he went headfirst into the pool of work, resolute. Sanctuary would always be work; sanctuary would be that which came to him naturally. Work was the glue that held his body together; it was the very foundation within him that broke no waver. That work was an immense part of the darkness seeping into his life did not escape him. But nothing else would beckon his attention, nothing else would be able to bring peace within him – it slowly became his life.

However natural the work of a homicide detective came to him, it also brought forth something he had not accounted for when he had joined the force. He would never admit it out loud but he had a problem with control – with anger. Not something worth mentioning; but sometimes he could feel it slither around underneath his skin – breaking the water to remind him that little dark part of himself was still existent.

He was a bit reckless; his partner defended him whenever he landed in hot waters. He was rogue; the higher-ups would say with a small smile – it never amounted to full-blown intensity that anger of his. It was a rare event to find him completely out where he couldn't swim; however forceful the roar within he managed to be able to ground himself to something. It helped he was far from the only one in the force; helped that there were others – high ranking officers – who vented with more intensity than him. Brutality was too much the quintessence of their work that it was hard to let yourself not be encased in it as well.

However, sometimes he felt like a brute.

Sometimes he was a snarling wolf.

A little incident had happened the week before; it was only now it had truly gotten through his skin and situated itself into his heart, heavy. He felt slightly regretful; it was only a week after that he found clarity and a little regret for not being able to control himself better. The incident had warranted suspension for a couple of days; formality forcing the higher powers to give him a little slap on the wrist while they felt compelled to award him with a clap on the shoulder.

It did not warrant much disciplinary action when an officer reacted to being shoved by a junkie pusher. The slimy little guy, greasy hair and wide eyes, had pushed him, caught his jaw with a good left fist and taken off on unsteady feet. He had chased and tackled the creep into a door. He had a problem with control; he knew it. It was not something new – it was not an epiphany. He had broken the guys arm when he had forced small spindle arms behind in a deadlock. The floor had been red with blood; he had smashed the creep's nose into the door apparently.

Supposedly it was not a big complication; but still it nestled within him now - restless.

He was the embodiment of his job; it eroded him to the core and became the only thing he felt was something he could hang unto. It was the only thing in his life that felt certain. It was a contradiction when doubt sneaked into the domain that was supposed to be certainty incarnated. It forced him to abruptly stop; forced him to hold his breath as he contemplated his life. It made him unsure; it made him spin further out of the reach of control.

Contemplation that inevitably led to his marriage the year before; to the little boy at home – not more than four months. The little thing that seemed so fragile in his arms; precious yet fragile. It was absurd but he had never contemplated being a father; had always kept the notion far out of his world. The recollections of his own father were nothing but grimy – overshadowed by a dark color. This family seemed to have come into his life in the blink of an eye. It was both wonderful and frightening at the same time; both absurd and yet so real. Still it was a huge contradiction; he was not sure it was supposed to be filled with this amount of darkness the prospect of being a husband and a father.

Another contradiction in his world; _Sharon_.

He met her now and then, her signature red hair always gaining his attention, her eyes always alight with recognition when they landed upon him. Sometimes she smiled when they passed in hallways – sometimes she gave a miniature little wave when their divisions suddenly happened upon a shared conference.

The poignant thing about her though was something that stunned him; he had not realized how immensely different she was to all the other contradictions in his life. It was her outward façade that brought forth an opposing impression with what he knew of her, what he saw behind the mask when she let it slip every now and then. Mostly, her presence in his life filled him with a sense of belonging. They were both happy on the surface; they were both in the business of concealing the dark creatures in them. This masquerading felt like kinship of some kind; the tenuous bond of knowing another person understood you to the core felt far from a contradiction. It felt indescribable.

He found her to be well disguised. She reminded him of a large cat; calculating and with obscure intentions – moving through the motions of life with a graceful gait. However much their creatures seemed alike there was always a little bit of mystery to her; there was always a little nagging thought that he knew but a bit of the underground – knew only what she endeavored to let him know. If he had never met her that dark night years back – both drunk and inevitably sad – he would never have been able to see past the veil now. If he had not been invited inside that fateful night she would have remained a complete stranger to him. Above all he treasured the little key she had put in his hands; dark creatures safeguarded the truth more carefully than their own skin and blood after all.

A little dark creature that put on porcelain skin and painted her lips red; a little astute creature that knew that being alive in this world meant donning a disguise. The best disguise was the one that endeared you to others. He imagined you had to become someone else to make it in a man's world; imagined it was either being labeled as a secretary or become a sister in this world of solving crime; either a sex object or a loved one.

She was a walking talking, living breathing contradiction.

She was cunning, most of all.

She was a doll; always so impeccably dressed and always so pale; red painted lips always in a happy little smile. Her red hair always shone with something that reminded him of ripe fruit and sunsets ablaze; he was sure it was with that very intention she styled it. Nothing about her was left to mere happenstance; it all had an underlying reason – sometimes it eluded him however. Caught in between fascination and a little snip of surprise he watched as everyone became trapped in among her red strands, hair and light trapping everyone in her illusion – watched as she easily fitted herself into this little family that never took well to newcomers or outsiders.

She was always an exception; he put that insight in the back of his head – sure it would only be reinforced throughout his acquaintance with her.

It was like magnetic pull; a force to be reckoned with. She was clever that way; knew which way the world spun – knew how to twirl men around her little finger, knew how to integrate herself into whatever environment she happened to be taking residence in. Later on he would liken it to a basic survival instinct within her – animate and mysterious; later on he would wonder how one happened to come upon such a skill. Much later on he would wonder why she chose to abandon such an instinct.

However disguised she choose to be he was always afforded a little glimpse of the true being; it was unique – he felt welcomed into an exclusive group that only consisted of the two of them. He saw the dark little creature, saw the dangerous smile behind the mask. She became a little sister to every detective working with her, became the sister you protected with teeth and bare hands. It was an amazing feat. Importantly, she fit in with the crowd of officers; hung out with the boys – joined in the little tight-knit society. But to him she remained herself; he neither saw the sister or the doll – only that astute little creature.

In the beginning they rarely spoke – both too solitaire and independent to bring up a drunken night. In the beginning it was the dance of animals; shy and sovereign. They circled each other; looked in among the grass of the savanna as they approached each other and then swiftly slipped away again. Survival instinct was an intense piece of them both; they had to canvass the territory before they approached foreign terrain. She remained a force of mystery to him; he had a suspicion he remained just as elusive to her – why else would she circle his life with the approach of an interested cat. Maybe it was a rarity for the both of them to find a creature so alike their own; it naturally afforded them curiosity.

In the end it became strange not to talk to her; she seemed to belong in his world. Sometimes predators hunted in a pack; sometimes they forgone their solitude for just a bit of company.

Where she belonged in his life, he had no clue. It was with both hesitance and confusion that he found it hard to put her in a category; he was unsure how to catalogue her – what was she to him? She was more dear to him than most of his friends – but he saw her less. She was not the foremost fantasy in his mind – but she sometimes sneaked into his mind. She was married as well; off-limits as much as he himself was off-limits. He rarely entertained any romantic notion about what would have happened had they both met again and been available. He felt certain such a notion would only have ended in some kind of fight; dark creatures rarely found being dependent on others something to reconcile with. Such a union would surely only have ended in bared teeth, snarling throats and raised haunches. No; she felt more like a piece of himself – different yet so alike.

Mostly he felt intrigued by her being – mostly he felt soothed when she suddenly orbited into his life.

She frequented the usual hauntings for their kind – a warm little bar just a few streets from headquarters; it was the place where he met her most. It was in the dim lights of a warm smoke-filled bar where he settled into an acquaintance with her that grew into something he had never anticipated.

He enjoyed those times where she sauntered around the room, flittering back and forth between friendly faces before she planted her presence firmly next to his, eyes alight with something he never knew how to describe. He liked those quiet times, sharing a beer and a knowing look as it was just the two of them in a cubicle. Mostly she was surrounded by a warmth that felt like a compulsion; pulled him into the embers of her smiles and the flames of her warmth. It was soothing. It was a rare event for him to see the distressed sad girl from when they had first met. Somehow it seemed like an important nuance; only he was not sure what it meant. He pocketed it into a growing list of inconsistencies and puzzles in the back of his mind; reserved for her.

Sometimes her boyfriend-turned-husband joined her; sometimes his wife came along as well. There was something very profound about those nights in the police bar that became precious to him in hindsight. It was the only time he could ferret out anything about her life – when the girls went to the toilet or trotted arm-in-arm to the bar he was left with the blonde man.

She was a trickster in his mind.

The key to her existence lay in illusions not in truth; it lay in deciphering the many layers she pulled around her existence. She never provided personal details about herself. Oh he knew on the surface she supplied you with a torrent of impressions but he was interested in what lay beneath. He was interested in the little dark creature. Her husband was an eminent source; chatty and charming – never able to resist anything with just enough whiskey in him.

It was because of those evenings he knew anything about her at all. It was because of such an evening that his heart had constricted and two pieces of a puzzle had clicked into place. A little tidbit of information and he felt absolutely dreadful and blissful simultaneously. A contradiction indeed – dreadful on her behalf, happy to know more about her.

Her brother had died; her husband-then-boyfriend had told him almost as an afterthought – died just a year before she joined the academy. The blonde guy had commented that he thought it was the reason she joined. There was something there – a story that contained more than what either of them had been told. Later on he would put more pieces together; maybe someday he would stand with a whole picture and not just small fragments.

Now, he gleefully watched the movement of her slender body, covered in a grey LAPD t-shirt and long black tights; an aura that of a predator regarding him from the corner of her eyes. Even covered in sweat, tresses of red hair pulled tightly back in a ponytail, there was an air of something poised about her. Muscles stretched and tensed; coming alive beneath her skin, eyes animated with a sparkle – danger unraveling before his eyes. Flexing his own muscles he contemplated tackling her to the ground and forcing her to spill whatever secret that put that sparkle in her gray eyes; she was awfully ticklish.

This was another place they frequented; the hard mattress in the middle of the fitness room a nest of body sweat and blood. He still remembered the first time he came across her; in the fading light of day. It had not surprised him she had chosen to habit this place in the same hour of the day that he had; they both wanted to be alone to ruminate – alone to work out both their body as well as their mind. His presence however had surprised her; it was a seldom event and one he had cherished. He liked surprising her.

Now she greeted him with a smile; beckoned him forward.

He rolled her hands in tape; his large fingers always seeming too big and rough in comparison with her small slender ones. She helped him with his own tape; he watched her eyes as she fastened the tape.

It had begun as a little contest; to spar with someone where there was no need to keep up facades. On her part he was certain she enjoyed sparring against someone who would not hold back; the problem with being a little sister to your division meant they taught her an extensive list of self defensive work but felt compelled by nature to not go too hard on her. He felt no such compulsion; he knew if he lowered his defenses she would break his nose.

Mostly it was merely a harmless little battle of keeping up their footwork; of keeping in form. Mostly they both ended up exhausted and sweaty. Sometimes one of them was not paying attention and they went away with a split lip, a broken eyebrow or a sprained wrist; nothing too serious.

Today however, there was something about her that confused him. There was something mysterious about her this evening; a small little smile at the corner of her lips. A little smile he had become familiar with but one he had no clue about; clueless about its origin or interpretation. Another little thing that slipped past illusions; he liked it when her façade slipped and she let him into her world.

She kept giving him a challenging look; kept on a strange little smile on her lips – something entrancing dancing in her eyes.

They easily danced around each other; left and right – evasion maneuvers around each other as they circled. Fists meeting air or a well-grounded deflection. Quick on the ball of their feet's, swift on their toes.

Abruptly he ended up on his stomach, arm pinned painfully behind his back, a knee into his spine. He breathed heavily into the sour mattress; not surprised she had managed to get him down first. He was too occupied by her strange smile.

Next she had him pressed into the mattress again, his face flattened against the cold hard surface, a hand rough around his neck, keeping him down. He gave a little chuckle and he caught the answering glimpse of laughter in her eyes when she let him up.

"_C'mon you big oaf – show some,_" she teased him.

He merely showed his teeth in response; she always managed to catch him off guard the first couple of rounds; he always managed to hit back with brute force after landing headfirst into the mattress a couple of times – he always needed a little incentive to topple her off her balance.

They tumbled together and this time he had her pinned beneath him; easily once he had the right angle – all he had to do was use his heavier body and gravity; he could always rely on strength in this. Something he knew she resented; it meant she had to be extra careful – always make sure not to thread into that position where she would inevitably fall under the extra gravity of his weight and taller frame.

He grinned down at her; this was not really a maneuver they used frequently as officers; his grin widened - he could see the surprise in her eyes, around her mouth. Her arms were easy to pin down once he sat on top of her; her body too small to compete against his when he was planted firmly on her pelvis.

"_You sneak,_" she huffed out at him.

"_No rules remember,_" he grinned back, tightening his hands around her wrist. She didn't even wriggle; it would be pointless anyway. She never did things that were pointless; it was outside her nature.

"_Out with it_," he told her.

"_Out with what?"_ she said in a confused tone but he saw beneath that layer she chose to put into her voice. He saw the knowing little glint in her smile. She tilted her head, in a little angle that told him he was on the right trail; there was something she wanted to tell him.

"_C'mon – you can't hide it_," he coaxed. He knew the moment she let go and chose to just tell him; tense muscles beneath him became relaxed and loose; her smile evolved into an even bigger grin.

"_I won't be able to hide it in a few months, no._"

He grinned; two pieces fitting together – it clicked and he understood.

She smiled back.

"_Congratulation, Mama._"

She laughed.

He continued to look at her; she seemed happy – even beneath the mask. Especially under the mask he amended.

"_I'll show you the ultrasound later, Michael has been staring at it for days now._"

"_I kept mine in my back pocket for months_," he told her.

"_Oh you boys, turning all mushy mushy._"

"_You betcha._"

He was happy for her; genuinely.

"_We_ _will be able to arrange play dates you know._" she told him with another grin.

"_Oh woe – Flynn and Raydor Junior_"

She nodded.

There it was again; that aura of warmth surging around her, within her – genuine and rare. It reminded him of sunsets again; sunsets in the middle of summer. That time of the year where the sun rises and sets with a warm hue; barely a visible object on the horizon before you feel the warmth seep into your bones. A summer sun; burning on the tips of her lips – edged into the swirling specs of gray in her eyes. Everything seemed possible with that smile, he reflected. Memorizing the lines around her mouth, the specific color in her eyes; it was unlike any gray he had seen before – he wanted to be able to remember this when it disappeared.

Before he could restrain himself he leaned down, lips on warm skin as he kissed her forehead – he could taste the salt of her sweat, felt the quiver in her arms pinned down. Neither of them had a propensity for affective touches; but this was an exception. Even if it made her eyes obscure, even if that sun burned even more intensely – felt dangerous close to bursting into a flammeous ocean.

They both pulled on their masks; it was hard to linger on a moment like this – better to let it float away on its own than continue to watch it. Loosening the lock he had around her arms, he filed the little tilt to her head away.

"_C'mon Mama,_" he said as he stood up and provided her a hand, "_gotta keep you out of harm's way, huh._"

The sun was instantly passed by a cloud; not a surprise but anticipated by him. The minute tightening around her mouth, the narrowed eyes; he grinned – sometimes she was predictable. Sometimes he knew her too well; it did not happen a lot but when it did he cherished it.

"_I'm kiddin'_," he threw his hands in the air, "_I'm gonna take you down._"

With another smile, not as bright but still warm, she took his offered hand; muscle once again tense as they started circling each other again. In the years to come he would come to love the summer sun; it was finally a little fragment of her dark creature that blossomed. It was both genuine and infectious.

**/**


	4. Gentle Fall

**/**

**Part 4: Gentle Fall**

**/**

It was the year 1985; and it was liquid horror, thick and dense as it drowned him in its cold embrace. It was thunder inside his skull loud and echoing with too many dead bodies – horror wrought by human nature, the despicable pits of human depravity. It gnawed into him, devoured him; it became the point in his life upon which everything seemed to revolve around. It was an earthquake rumbling through his body, devastating – the aftermath left him in turmoil and agony. However hard-edged and tough you became in his line of work – however much you forged your mind into steel there was still those cases in between that trapped air in your lungs and made your knees weak. There would always be a case that made you want to crawl into your own skin – vomit till you fainted. There was only so much you could fortify yourself against; every cop would have his own weak spots.

This time he felt the fabric of his skin dissembling, disintegrating – the construction of bones seemed suddenly a very weak foundation to him; he had trouble maneuvering and standing. Maybe it was the tendons in his body that were weak with horror; maybe it was a neural network in his brain that had suddenly turned into this repeated pattern of deep naked horror. His very being shattered, was ripped apart, drawn out piece by piece till it became too much, until he stumbled further and further into a very dark hole – unlike any hole he had previously thought existed. It was always like this; it always became worse with each case – with age came only a more visible reaction to the world around him.

He was seconds from breaking down.

He was a mess; cold beads of perspiration had perpetrated his clothes uncomfortable – his insides were occupied by permeated alcohol. His hands shook; they always did when he drank just a bit over his usual limit. His breath felt nauseated in his mouth.

Trembling he managed to bring his knuckles into contact with her door; that the doorbell would sufficiently announce his presence was forgotten in a haze of horror and alcohol. Leaning against the wooden door he rapped his knuckles against the frame, loud and hurtful; he had to see her – she would calm him down. When he felt this rotten nothing else really helped but somehow of all the people in his life she always knew what to do – what to say. Soothe away this horror before it became too much and he surely drowned not only in alcohol but in his own rotten soul.

Sometimes he wondered how she had become so adapt at dealing with pain. Was this another little hint of a puzzle; was it another aspect of her dark being that somehow inflicted her with insight into his.

Looking sideways he noticed the doorbell; he rang it once – waited and rang it again.

He felt almost frantic – what if no one was home. What if they had decided to take a family trip?

In his stupor he had forgotten it was the middle of the night; too doused in anxiety and horror, too quenched by alcohol to put together the fact that the streetlamps were shining in the middle of darkness and he had left headquarters just as the sun had set. That he had spent hours looking into the bottom of a whiskey bottle with his partner and a couple of detectives had escaped his mind; forgotten.

When he was this far away his attention span was severely depraved; he could only concentrate on not vomiting on her doorstep – could only comprehend the notion that he needed to see her.

The door opened suddenly and he nearly fell through it, surprised and inept to control his own gravity.

"_Flynn_," a male sleepy voice greeted him. It was not the person he most wanted to see; the voice deep and so different from her soft tones. It did not bother him; her husband was just as welcoming as Sharon herself when he came upon their house in the middle of the night. The guy was sometimes more adapt at getting him inside; the tall well-muscled man able to hold up the weight of him when he was too far away to be steady on his feet.

He let the compact form of Michael hold him up; felt strong arms tensing under his armpits as they brought him further inside. Merely the knowledge that he was no longer alone already settling in under his skin, burrowing down and settling into a weary feeling of sleepiness.

"_C'mon buddy_," the man coaxed him inside, closed the front door behind him.

They managed to stumble through the hallway; his weight heavily leaning on the other man, coming into the living room, the darkness a blessing. Somehow the other guy seemed to know that turning lights on would be too much for his eyes; too much for his mind. Instinct from knowing what happened the moment you drank too much; something they shared even if it was something neither talked about, even if it was something neither acknowledged.

Michael disposed his dense body on the couch, the man neatly tugging in wayward legs as he felt the warmth of a blanket being slipped across his body. He felt the other man pat his shoulder while he burrowed his own face into a cushion.

The couch was a familiar soft furniture he had become acquainted with over the last couple of years; distress and unrest in his soul always forcing him to the familiar door. Sometimes he was too drunk to remember much; only Michael bringing him to the couch and slipping a blanket over him. Sometimes it was Sharon opening the door in the middle of the night and he was always – no matter the consumption of alcohol – mindful of not tumbling her with all his weight. Mindful but he never succeeded in not leaning a bit too much on her; somehow they always managed to stumble to the restroom in unison without falling. She always guided him to the toilet first, soft hands determined to get some fluid in him, the water running from the tap – she usually wet a cloth as well and perished the cold sweat from his brow.

Michael left him with a pat on the shoulder; sometimes little words of '_just sleep it off buddy_'. Sharon always sat with him, made him eat rest overs if he was up to it – sat next to his long body unfolded on her couch; soft whispered words always bringing him to spill whatever was troubling him. Sometimes she kissed his temple before she went to her own bed to sleep.

Tonight Sharon replaced Michael, a robe thrown over a nightgown; her hair muffled from sleep – protruding belly now so big he had thought she would never be able to sit down. She was finally on maternity leave; something both he and Michael had grumbled about for a long time. She sat down next to him, patting his hip till he relented and made room for her to sit on the couch as well.

"_Thank god you didn't wake Mischa,_" she said in a hushed voice – she always started this way; little words that had nothing to do with his current problem. He was likewise glad he hadn't woken the little girl; he knew her parents had trouble getting her to sleep.

"_You're freezing,_" she commented and drew the blanket even further up, settled it under his chin. There was never anything pitying in her; she always seemed to comprehend his distress – always seemed ready to understand why he did what he did. He could not go home to an empty apartment; he had done that enough times – it would only bring him further under. He could not go to his ex-wife and two small kids; it was in the middle of the night and he was drunk – it would only end with Marlene suing him and he would never see his kids then. His kids were three hours away in a car; Sharon was always close.

"_The Lueta case?_" she asked hesitantly after a long period of quietude from the both of them; her fingers soft against his skin – almost coaxing him to sleep – a tender caress that travelled and reversed a pattern, calming in its repetition.

He nodded.

The case had been in the news; it was a widespread case throughout central and all over the city. It had been ongoing for two days now; two days of spinning between anticipated hope and dreadful foreboding. She had been dead all along; the little blond five year old – dead from the start of the kidnapping. He had seen the body; first on scene with his partner to apprehend the suspect – junkie babysitter who had unwittingly killed the daughter of a prominent lawyer with an overdose and tried to cover it up with a kidnapping.

He was filled to the core with disgust.

"_She was dead from the start,_" he told her, mumbled through his cracked lips as he tried to hold back the sting in his eyes – to hold back the raw feeling lining the walls of his intestines. Some nights like this and he cried; tonight however his eyes were already red-rimmed and raw; it felt exhausting just to think of crying again. Sometimes he forgone crying; sometimes he merely took comfort from the presence of her – he knew she would sit with him until he fell asleep if he started crying. Sometimes he just wanted her to get a bit of sleep; felt too guilty to force her to sit with him throughout the night.

"_Oh honey_," she caressed his jaw – eyes dark in the limited light in the living room. He could count the number of times she had called him honey on one hand – this was the second time. It catapulted him further to edge of breaking down; the connotation of those words so soft, so authentic he could not stop himself from shivering. She was always so gentle when he was in this state; everyone else couldn't stand him – brooding aggression or dark despondency – they usually gave him a wide berth. Everyone else stayed clear of him when they noticed the darkness to his eyes; she only seemed to acknowledge the hurt creature. It was one of these rare times where she appeared tender he had trouble with how to reconcile it with her other moods; the only times he could with certainty file it away as her being genuinely gentle towards him.

She reminded him of fall when she was like this; a gentle fall – it was a very calm impression of warmth then. The warm hue just before the leaves fall to the ground in a tumble, that little slip in time where leaves change into that soothing color of warm yellow and intense red. That time of year where temperature is neither too cold nor too warm; but everything seems to be just okay – everything seems to be comforted by the embrace of the season anyway.

Softly she stroked his temple, his hair; there was nothing to say – in the morning she would say everything there was to say, when he was sober and ready to listen. But for now she simply stroked his hair. Lulled him into sleep with the gentle touch of fingertips on his temple, soothing as they travelled into his hairline.

It was always in one of these moments he felt compelled to ask her a question; but he never dared. It was always in one of these moments he felt on the cusp of finally having comprehended her nature; it felt like something being revealed to him. Mostly he was too sleepy or too drunk to fully understand her though. Afterwards he had trouble recalling the image of gentle fall; it always eluded him when he was lucid.

It was with some regret he found that this was as much a rarity as everything else about her; another little piece of her that was genuine but still so far away he could not grasp its origin. He would not have it any other way; it was the complexity of her that made her unique – at least to him. He had a sneaking suspicion others never saw the nuances to her being; they would never be able to comprehend the many elements that made her this complex, this rare.

She left him but for a moment; sitting down again and forcing him to gulp down water. The soft caress continued and he could feel himself falling deeper into drowsiness, on the brink of sleep. He was barely aware of it when she left him again, going back to her own bed – the soft little whispered kiss to his cheek hardly registering.

Sometimes he woke up to the smell of breakfast, laughter and soft voices in the kitchen as she and the little one ruminated around, making pancakes for him. Sometimes he woke up earlier; Michael putting a cup of coffee on the table before him as he left for work; the guy was always leaving for work at the crack of dawn; there was always a shot of whiskey in the coffee to relieve him of a too heavy headache. Sharon on maternity leave meant she trotted around the house hours after her husband had left, yawning and grousing about not being able to drink caffeine; she used to be a morning person. She always woke him with a glass of water and two aspirin instead of coffee, always a little inscrutable look at the coffee cup when she saw it.

Sometimes he woke to small chubby hands patting his head; small but big eyes regarding him with childish glee – puffs of air hitting him as the little girl continued to stand and look at the strange creature lying on her couch, breathing on him as she tried to observe him quietly. Eventually she woke him up with a squeal of '_Adee_' never coming around to pronouncing his name correctly; she always gave him her teddy bear before she ran to her mother.

This time he woke to the sounds of small feet pitter-pattering across linoleum floor; he smiled in spite of the way his head seemed to protest at the motion. Opening his eyes he found the sight of a coffee cup on the table in front of him, suddenly vaguely recalling sensing the blonde man leaving it there. It meant it would be just the tree of them.

A small mass of a body came into his view; he watched mesmerized as the little girl first put a book on the couch and then her teddy bear. Then she climbed up on the couch herself up as well. Grinning he sat up in a hurry, feeling only a slight tad dizzy, lifting her up in what have become a little ritual. She squealed with a delightful little voice – small lips too reminiscent of Sharon, crinkled in amusement. He ruffled her hair and she ruffled his.

Sometimes he had a nagging thought the little girl thought he was a big teddy bear just magically appearing on her couch from time to time; ready to read books to her or draw with her – or force her mother to make pancakes. He supposed he did look a bit like a bear when he woke up from sleep like this; sometimes grumbling and yawning.

Smiling at the little creature he settled both of them, sinking into the cushions again, the girl on his lap as he opened the book – full of pictures. Reaching out he caught the glass with water still on the table from last night, drank a mouthful before he started narrating a story about princesses and frogs. The coffee would be cold and the whiskey stale; it would only nauseate him now.

It did not escape him that this year he saw more of Sharon's kid than his own two; it was not a conscious decision and when he had realized that the little girl on his lap had come to recognize him and saw more of him than his own children, it had hurt. It was merely a development that had happened; it seemed to have snuck up on him.

Work consumed him, whole and raw; it was all that were left for him to hang unto – without work he would surely crumble completely into the bottle. That work had likewise cost him his wife was something he was not entirely sure of; maybe it was as much his tendency to drown his problems in alcohol – maybe it was the fact that deep down he had never seemed that compatible with her anyway. He loved his kids dearly; he was supposed to see them every other weekend – mostly murders caught him in a trap and he saw them once a month. They lived three hours away from him now; it was not trip he could merely go on whenever he felt like it. Showing up unannounced would definitely put Marlene in a fit.

The little girl leaned into his chest, the pajamas marine blue with teddy bears. She was maybe as precious to him as his own kids; not that he loved his own less. It was an indescribable feeling; but she was Sharon's. Anything related to Sharon would always be dear to him.

He could always knock on the front door here; never mind what state he was in – someone always welcomed him. Sometimes being an animated teddy bear was just the sort of mundane thing that brought him back to reality, sometimes merely being in the presence of someone who was unaware of the world's cruelty was a blessing.

Maybe the little girl saw him as a teddy bear because the first few times he woke up on her couch, her mother would ruffle his hair and tell the girl on her hip that he was not that dangerous, that he really was a soft ball of fur. The girl had been shy at first; hesitant at seeing that strange creature suddenly in her house. He imagined it would be weird to wake up and a stranger was on the couch where you usually saw tv in the mornings.

"_Adee_?" Mischa asked; her head turned as she regarded him, round brown eyes inherited from her father, reddish-brown locks from her mother.

"_Yes?_"

"_Mommy says you wanna go to the park?_"

He gave a nod and a smile; he started reading again – Mischa pleased, helping him turn the pages, telling him when he did a voice wrong; apparently princesses did not sound like bears.

Sharon must have called in sick on his behalf – however much a fanatic he was with work twenty-four-seven he also knew that there was nothing he could say to her that would convince either of them that work today would be a good idea. The first time it had happened he had been almost angered, on the point of yelling; only she had given him an arched eyebrow and told him to 'shush it'. He was still amazed he had listened; amazed she had not thrown him out.

Usually she called in sick for him; his partner seemed to understand when he took her phone call. It always meant she was either forcing him to go with her to the park or something equally mundane – forcing him to stay with her, babysit her little one. It always brought him relief; this was even more precious. Maybe he could forget the lifeless cold eyes of the dead girl; the pale pallor of dead skin – he needed to merely exist in this moment – read the story to the little girl in his arms, feel soothed by the knowledge that any minute now Sharon would walk by in her pajamas as well on the way to the kitchen, breakfast soon wafting in the air.

She always seemed to know how to reel him back to reality; reel him into a cocoon of serenity. That it never lasted long with him was beside the point; however fleeting this little moment was it always stayed with him for a long time.

**/**


	5. Drifts of Snow

**/**

**Part 5: Drifts of Snow**

**/**

It was the year 1986; and he thread upon a fragile ground. Delicate thin ice beneath his feet – unsure whether it would keep his weight or whether it would crumble, crack and splinter till he fell into the depths of cold suffocating water. It was an existence composed by hesitance most of all; he hesitated in everything he did – felt too consumed by doubt and a wrecked thing of guilt. Guilt, hesitance – anger, betrayal; it all crashed together and made it impossible to distinguish any singular feeling embedded within him. Instead he was left with this complicated mesh of emotions that rampaged through his mind in endless propagation and toil.

Adrift on a reckless wind, flying whichever direction the fickle mind of his chose; sometimes there was a rhythm to it – mostly it felt too vague to resemble any kind of design. It was cause and reaction; only the cause was hidden and obscure. That left him to rely only on reaction – something that had guided him in the past but now it felt like abandon. Now his nature balked; he could feel the creature in his depths roar at the confusion. Adrift in the wind, small insignificant snow flake floating around in a dark space; he was afraid to fall to the ground. The ground was not permeated by the same degree of frost; its humidity would melt him upon contact.

It was a storm of unrest in his being.

A snowstorm of considerate strength within him, wrecking through neurons and leaving his mind in state of confusion; it was nothing less than the culmination of something he had predicted years back. He had always imagined there would come a point in his life where he would be overthrown by his world.

It would have been a natural progression but hesitance was accompanied by anger.

He could feel the two opposing forces residing within him; it only contributed to his confusion.

It was a very peculiar feeling; peculiar only because he had never imagined he would become _this_ addictive by an inexplicable tension of aggression. It was a very raw feeling; something that brought forth bonfires and explosions inside his skull. Something that lighted his very body on fire – an inferno of anger that no longer was contained – no longer repressed.

He felt unhinged; unchained and free to roam from the depths of darkness. It felt as if something had cut a hole into his skin from where darkness could leap; no longer trapped within the refines of his body. It was not necessarily a bad thing, he tried to tell himself. It was not necessarily something meant to be quenched.

Maybe he had become tired of blending in; tired of slumbering in high grass and stealthily roaming – tired of hiding. Maybe he longed for company; something that would not remind him he was a failure. Maybe he only needed to be acknowledged, fragments and all.

Sometimes dark creatures had enough of solicitude.

Sometimes predators craved danger.

Jaw clenched he watched as the physician stitched the two vertical gashes along his lower abdomen together. The wounds traversed along with his lower ribs, an angry color to the torn flesh. He watched steady gloved fingers around a pair of tweezers and surgical scissor, neatly bringing that little hook on the end of a nylon thread through his skin. Skin numbed he felt nothing when the sharp end pierced through his skin and drew the edges of the wound closer together; he felt nothing but a warm burning anger within – felt compelled to force his eyes on the two wounds, to remind himself of this feeling nesting within him. It needed to be kept in flames otherwise it would begin to slumber again; otherwise it would pave the way for that cold feeling of hesitance. He needed warm anger instead; something to keep warm by.

The exam room was small, white and detached walls – the bustle from the otherwise busy emergency ward outside a hush; subdued as if under water. The headrest of the exam bed was elevated; he wanted to be able to look as the two wounds came together with sutures; he did not want to lie back and gaze into the ceiling. Upon arrival he had shed his bloodied jacket and shirt; the two crumbled garments lying in a plastic bag at the feet of his partner now – evidence. His badge and gun still in his belt, the holster attached to jeans that still felt too cold for comfort. They afforded him no real warmth but he was not going to part with more clothes; even if dark spots of his own blood lingered in the denim. He felt exposed enough as it was.

Fortunately a blanket had been thrown across his upper chest as the doctor sutured his abdomen back together; the wounds had not been deep enough to warrant any damage. They hurt like hell though. He felt as if he seeped coldness from every pore in his skin, something like freezing ice having settling into his marrow. Cold from within, making it impossible to garner any semblance of warmth – it was the reason he kept his jaws clenched and tried to breathe through his nose. He had a feeling his teeth would start chattering otherwise. He had been swept in a thermal blanket in the ambulance; it had felt absolutely wonderful – scorching. Now he was just cold.

His partner leaned against the opposite wall, eyes alike fastened on the doctor and the stitching. There was a grim expression on his partner's face; mouth drawn into a perpetual frown. It had been an awful case; one of those that just kept on going in a spiral – one of those that ended with the discovery of bodies; plural. The frown only deepened when the door into the exam room opened and Sharon stuck her head in, eyes so light they appeared almost luminescent – a small line at the corner of her mouth that told him she was stuck between a feeling of worry and hesitance. Her signature red hair a dead on route to frowns in the department nowadays.

Soft and sweet Sharon; always appearing when he found himself in trouble to his chin, always ready to grace him with a warm smile. Only her features were not soft. Her smile was not the sweet little tug of lips he had come to know from too many nights spent on her couch; hard eyes and hesitant smile instead. The frown was merely thrown back at his partner; he could have told the guy that frowns would do no good against her.

Surprise was but a small emotion at her presence, foremost was the sudden feeling of something tempering down that burning flame within; anger slipping out from every corner and nook in his body at the sight of her – steadily leaving him colder and colder albeit. He would never admit it but she always managed to calm him down, even if he wanted to delude himself into thinking he would rather not see her. Even if he felt opposed to being calm.

The eyes of his partner fell on her with surprise as well; suspicion set deep in the lines around the older man's mouth. Having known his partner for a long time however he read the sadness beneath the other more vivid emotions, beneath the frown. No one trusted the rat squad but her betrayal had been so much worse. Her betrayal had been personal; to all of them. However much they frowned they could not hide the sadness beneath at seeing her in internal affairs.

Her transfer, it cut deep into his bones - into the small chambers of his heart. He had not even been in the same division as her but he knew it had cut even deeper into the hearts of her previous division. It had come out of nowhere to everyone.

Transferring to internal affairs was much worse when you had been adored by the many detectives who worked homicide and narcotics; it was like seeing your little sister suddenly turning around and giving you the finger, running off with boys you knew were up to no good. To him it had felt as if she had left the savanna altogether; going in search of mountains and altitudes that were in no way their way of life. She had left him in the high grass and gone in search for castles in the sky.

It was a betrayal; and he had told her as much. It was the first time he realized that there were some truths that were better not uttered out aloud between them; he should never have told her his opinion about her transfer. It had only deteriorated the fragile state of their bond even further; she had felt betrayed as well.

The physician drew a large dressing band across his abdomen, drawing a bandage around his abdomen and back as he was urged to sit up. It tingled with pain as he was guided to sit up, his legs swinging over the edge of the bed. The doctor told him instructions about the wounds – but his eyes were fastened on her, having trouble listening when all he heard was the creak of ice beneath his feet, cracking and groaning. The bond between them was as fragile as a frozen pond where you had no potential way of knowing whether it was frozen past the point of breaking or not. Sometimes he felt she was essentially trying to break the ice, hammering down a shovel upon the fragile ground; sometimes he was sure there was only him to fault if the ice broke.

The doctor and his partner left through the door leaving only Sharon standing with him in the room, arms crossed. Somehow they must have sensed he needed to be alone with her. The doctor most likely assuming the missus had shown up; his partner hastily making a retreat, most likely heaving a breath of relief at him being someone else's problem now. Even if she had betrayed them she was better equipped to handle the angry wounded animal.

"_What have you gotten yourself into this time?_"

"_Some bastard decided to slice me up, then locked me in a storage facility._"

It had been one horrifying hour of striding through the small dead space with carcasses of dead cows hanging from the ceiling – coldness so permeated into the air that his own breath had turned to vapor in front of his eyes. He chose not to explain the wild intensity that had kept him riled up – savage beast as he had tried to keep warm by walking; he chose not to tell her his knuckles were raw and bruised from banging on the metal door – or that he had alternated between roaring for help and roaring profanities till his throat was as raw as his knuckles. Most importantly he chose not to tell her about the dead bodies in the cooler among the cows – chose not to tell her it had clicked when two officers had opened the locked metal door; clicked when he saw the creep in handcuffs – suffice it to say the cold and dead carcasses had gotten to him – the wounds in his side had made him lose all control.

It was etched into the cells of his retina; the dead cold smell of meat permanently a memory in his nostrils. He was probably in for a suspension; for punching the creep right in the face, for continuing to land his fists into the handcuffed murderer - the two officers had been unable to hold him back. It was still within him the feeling; still so savage he could taste the taint of metal on his tongue. That and the photos of dead young working girls back at headquarters; the reason they had been tailing the bastard in the first place. He had pummeled his fists into the bastard.

She came further into the room, came to stand in front of him, just outside reach. There was something different about her. Usually she would have approached him with a solid stride; not these tentative steps. Usually she would have met his eyes but now they flickered away, going along his bared abdomen and chest, uncertainty in the depths.

He couldn't help but feel guilty at her sudden different façade; it seemed to have lingered long in her eyes after he had initially put it there. He had never imagined he would be the reason; had never thought she would not fight back with raging fire. Instead he got silent hesitance; it both confused him and wrecked him with guilt. The look in her eyes now was almost the same naked look he had encountered when he had confronted her about her transfer; just faded now.

He still vividly remembered that look in her eyes when he had raged about her sudden decision to transfer; a very sudden color to her eyes he had never seen before. Gray-tinged ice; maybe she had never imagined he would feel it as a betrayal. How was he supposed to threat it any other way when it happened out of the blue; when he heard about it from the narcotics division and not herself?

That hurt look albeit how much she doused it with something else had been ever present since.

He had nothing to compare it too yet – it was a novel expression for him; only he knew that the appearance of gray-tinged ice in the depths of her eyes reminded him of winter. Dead winter; raging more wildly than a possible fiery fire. Dead winter; almost so heart wrenching he felt an inner need to apologize and make it go away. It tore at his skin – inflicted him with the heavy feeling of guilt and something inexplicable. Mostly it felt cold.

She was far out of his reach when she was like this.

She seemed like a different creature; not one he felt acquainted with. Maybe he had gotten too comfortable in his knowledge of her and had not seen this coming – he had not been prepared.

In the years to come he would be able to put together this fragment of her with the rest of her existence; be able to reconcile dead winter with her. It was as much a part of her as any other emotion; only he had never seen it before this day. It was merely a manifestation he had never laid eyes upon before now; it had been locked very deep into her being. In the years to come dead winter evolved and brought along revelation; it was not merely impression of hurt and agony she projected; no it was a twirl of repressed anger – injured being left in a corner, teeth bared in repressed pain.

In the future he realized it was reserved especially for him; it was after all a true part of herself she let slip and not a foreign thing as he had first assumed.

"_Why are you here? Did the bastard file charges?_" The words were hard but his voice was merely soft; he had no strength to put force and anger into it, had no need to bring her into a conversation that would only end in pain. He was too weary to instigate anything that would sap his energy; angry words with her were bound to do just that.

That and there was almost a hint of defiance in her eyes that dared him to anger her; as if she was waiting for an opportunity to vent on him. He had no desire for such an invitation; she would rip him apart he was sure.

No, he kept his tone soft. Softness brought her closer; anger would have pushed her away. She stepped into his space, again a shy appearance to her approach. Wild animals never approached foreign things without a slip of hesitance; maybe he had to remember that sometimes she recoiled at things she did not understand. Obviously he had catapulted himself into that category.

She traced the line of his jaw with a warm hand; everything felt warm compared to his skin that still felt the aftermath of the cooler.

"_My name's on your emergency contact list_," she told him, voice calm. Calm as the dead of winter; calm only in the absence of movement.

His hands landed on her waist of their own accord; he could see the confusion around her mouth. Touch always felt so peculiar when they deigned themselves to linger in it; he curled his fingers around her and brought her further into his space. It hurt like hell – the stitching in his side protesting at the movement. He didn't care. His arms went around her middle and drew her in; enveloping himself in her scent and the familiar of her warmth.

They rarely hugged.

"_You're cold,_" her tone was soft; he felt one hand tracing down his back in a hesitant pattern, so soft it was barely a touch at all. The other went to the nape of his neck; into his hair and brought him closer. He turned his head sideways, ear and cheek enveloped by the warmth of her beating heart. The soft pressure on his back disappeared; came back clothed in a blanket as she drew it across his shoulders.

He could feel the impressions of her breasts; feel the inhalations of her breaths that brought him even closer to her chest. He tightened his grip around her.

"_Sometimes I understand why you transferred," _he told her.

She sighed; per silent agreement it had been decreed a volatile subject. It was imbued by the need to tread lightly; to be conscious of the fact that the wrong word, the wrong tone would undoubtedly push her towards even higher altitudes.

"_But most of the times I do not._"

She chose not to speak; but he felt her fingers tightening in his hair. He could imagine the danger signs in her irises.

"_It feels like a betrayal. You couldn't have chosen anything else but the rat squad? It doesn't suit you – it downright disagrees with you,_" he mumbled.

"_We've been around this a thousand times,_" it was her way of telling him that if he continued in this manner she would surely disappear.

"_I'm sorry_."

He looked up and caught her gaze; her eyes were so clear, almost clear like ice. It was a discovery he had made about her that he wished he would never had uncovered; she became dead winter when something he did or said hurt her. Others would see it as her being merely cold; they would not be able to discern the nuance in the look.

"_I know, I'm sorry too,_" her voice was soft again – eyes even beginning to thaw. She rubbed his back and he leaned into her again.

However close he was too her he could still feel the darkness between them; they were drifting apart. He could feel it in the steady heartbeat of hers, feel it in the tentative hands on his back – in the little steady breaths that ghosted into his hair, warm.

The thing between had never been something of hesitance before; had never been something where they had to tread carefully around each other, tentative and afraid to say the wrong thing. It was not in their nature to be fragile around each other but somehow it had become so tenuous that he was afraid. It went against everything he knew; it did not suit either of them. But it was a matter of fact; they were wary of each other.

Importantly they were on their guard; predators being wary of each other were never a good thing. It was bound to bring more complications than comfort. Everything would be covered in a little bit of mistrust now; he could already feel it slipping in between them; almost tangible in the air.

He wanted to anchor them together but he was afraid it would only bring them further apart.

Distrust and fear; the two worst things to put into the midst of their friendship.

**/**


	6. Spring Unraveled

**/**

**Part 6: Spring Unraveled**

**/**

It was the year 1988; and he alternated between trying sobriety and returning to the familiar home of liquor. An ever-changing battle that left him more exhausted than merely drinking in the first place. A battle of trying to suppress an inner nauseating need to deny he even had a problem in the first place and the hopeless realization that he had a problem and it was not going anywhere.

It was a struggle that demanded too much of him; not something he could merely contemplate when he felt like it. No, it meant integrating his very existence with the struggle – it meant having a nagging thought in the back of his head constantly. It was beyond an irritant; beyond failure.

He felt partway worthless.

He felt dense and see-through at the same time; an inexplicable feeling that only left him sinking deeper into a despair that seemed even quieter than he had imagined. Angry despair was loud; this despondency was almost absent in its quietude – silent like a void inside of him. It was too quiet to be comfortable – not like the usual skin of dark angry brooding he was used to. It felt like something within him that he had never recognized before; a little part of himself that was too fragile for daylight but could not grow without nourishment from the sun.

The first meeting he went to felt as much a requirement as a forceful shove; a group of strangers greeting him with welcoming smiles that felt too sincere – strangers exposing the most inner part of themselves while he tried to hide himself. It had both felt foreign and familiar; almost a repulsive need not to be there – and then again almost an intense feeling of wanting to be there. Obviously he was in turmoil – undecided about every goddamn little thing in his life.

He could not even decide what he wanted for dinner.

The simple little action of looking into his fridge and choosing whether he wanted salad or a leftover rice dish was too overthrown by indecision. He had given up meat after the incident with the cooler and dead bodies; he always got a faint flavor of blood and decay in his mouth when he ate meat now. Even the apprehension of suspects left him in distress now; was he being too forceful – too aggressive? Was he becoming too soft; too lenient? Fickle mood swings that really did not belong in his life; he resorted to spewing around a lot more of cursing than usual.

Wandering around his apartment he felt restless. He had left work late; eaten a homemade salad after staring emptily into his fridge for what seemed like half an hour. Leaving work late was the best insurance he had found; the later he left the more tired he would be when he arrived home. The more tired he was the more likely it was that he would merely head straight for bed. Then he could rise early and bring his ass into work again; early workout in the fitness center in the cellar of headquarters sure to make him even more tired later on.

Sometimes though he felt anything but tired, no matter how many hours he had spent doing paperwork or running after suspects. Sometimes he only felt the compulsion to relax with a beer on his couch – the compulsion to relax with other detectives and a shared bottle of whiskey. Mostly he felt he was on a one-way road to insanity.

In an attempt to force himself to bed he put on pajamas pants and a faded t-shirt, plunged himself into his couch and turned the television on – drank his fourth glass of water. He was in the middle of contemplating just going to bed – before he succumbed to going to a bar with a couple of guys from the gang unit.

His doorbell rang however; quite an unusual feature to his nights.

Trudging to the door he opened it with a scowl, ready to welcome whoever it was with a long tirade. However the sight that greeted him made him shut his mouth and made him forget about everything.

Sharon was standing on his doorstep, her boy on her hip, daughter's hand in hers and a large bag over her shoulder. Sharon in what could only be a LAPD windbreaker thrown over pajamas and disheveled hair – another unusual feature of the night – a complete unusual sight in fact. She never looked this ruffled – there was an appearance of something almost wild about her.

She had only come to him a couple of times in the duration of their acquaintance; he could recount every little event. One time she had been frantic on his doorstep – he had never seen that expression again; he knew he would never see it again unless the circumstances were somehow dire. She had been heavily pregnant with Mischa and Michael had been in Hong Kong; premature contractions and she had looked on the verge of crying. It had been false alarm but he still remembered the ride in his car to the hospital, her fingers shaking in his.

She did not look the least bit frantic now. No, just the look of something slightly broken – slightly fragmented. It reminded him of the first time he met her.

Another time – ages ago; back when they used to go to the gym together – she had merely come to his doorstep to announce he was lazy. Smug and grinning as she had watched him in her running clothes, arching an eyebrow at him – forcing him to run with her. Apparently the fitness center had been closed for maintenance and she had been in one of those moods he rarely saw and never knew what to do with.

Now she stood on his doorstep again, only there was something palpable wrong with it. It would have been a sore sight; only there was definitely something wrong with her eyes, with that smile that greeted him but bore nothing of resemblance in it. Gray eyes like a muted lake; murky and he was unable to see beyond the look. If her smile had not been so fragile he might have mistaken her for merely a little disturbed but no – the smile did not in any way allay his fears. If anything that smile frightened him.

Fragile and wild, he noticed.

She was really the last person he had expected to find on his doorstep. It was a surprise – not necessarily a pleasant one. They had not spoken to each other in almost a half year now; he could not even remember the last time they had had a truly worthwhile conversation.

Somehow he had stopped turning up on her doorstep in the middle of the night, forgone that and called his newly acquired sponsor instead. It was a gradual thing but one day he had stopped up and noticed that when they passed each other in hallways nowadays it was always with a greeting that was as fragile as the bond between them. They had always had their own different separate lives but now it seemed even more palpable – as if their orbits were slowly expanding – new planes of existences that seldom crossed.

Sometimes these things happened so slowly and in an unnoticed way that you never perceived it till it was blatantly obvious – until it was too late and it had happened. That they were drifting apart; further and further – it was now fact.

It was not a conscious decision on his part; it was not something he enjoyed or had wanted. It merely was.

He was not so sure about her. Everything about her that had once been see-through was now inscrutable. Every little detail about her that he had put together, every little piece that had seemed to fit her was now obviously distorted. He was never sure what went through her mind these days. He was very unsure of where he fit in in her life.

Sometimes he had to remind himself that they actually knew each other; he had to tell himself that even if she appeared unreadable he still knew her. Maybe he was as much of an enigma to her; maybe she found him to be just as aggravatingly difficult to read – sometimes she had a distinctive glint in her eyes when she regarded him. A glint that spoke of something unknown – as if she was studying him, trying to outweigh possibilities of his behavior. Whenever they did meet each other in hallways nowadays it was with that glint; and he supposed he was maybe just as appraising of her – calculating whether she would smile back if he greeted her with a smile.

Every now and then he stopped up and took a breath; he desperately wanted to do something about it – to somehow repair what had gone wrong. It was difficult however when he had no clue what had gone wrong; you could not repair something that did not seem visible broken. His own life always pushed him to motion again and he forgot about it for a while; they both had their own lives – both too enveloped by work and their own families. Their own lives consumed too much of their time; sometimes there was no room for her.

But tonight something was different; here she was, children in tow – sleepy brown eyes regarding him. He imagined it was past bedtime for them. They both looked ready to drop down and sleep on his floor; Mischa hanging onto her mother's hand, leaning against her. The little boy – Thomas he amended – curled into her side, small arms around her neck. He had never seen much of the boy; the rift somehow having divided them before he could get to know the little boy. But he saw recognition in Mischa's eyes.

Sharon smiled at him – a smile to reassure him but it really did nothing of the sort. She ushered the kids in when he opened the door for them. He was not stupid enough to ask her what was wrong now; it would inevitably lead to chaotic words and an even stranger smile he was sure. If he prodded into her distress she would sure grace him with nothing but a veil; possibly only turn her smile even more fragile. He never could handle seeing her in distress; it seemed to go against her nature – against his. They were not supposed to be vulnerable people.

Predators were not supposed to be vulnerable.

As it were he could only think of one reason she would be here this late at night – it was really a no-brainer; Michael. He knew the guy drank too much sometimes; it was something you noticed when you did the exact same thing yourself. He knew the guy worked too much and sometimes was absent for long periods of time, roaming across somewhere on the east coast with his work, always on the road to somewhere. It had been something that had been apparent to him back when he used to sleep on their couch; it was something he had ruminated about – but had never dared ask about.

Instinctually he knew the limits to his relationship with her; he knew that there were aspects of their lives they never shared. She never had divulged much about her past and her family – he knew not to ever bring certain subjects up. She had never once told him he drank too much – never once told him to get his life together.

Inevitably they both knew which subjects would bring them into different corners, fighting and defending themselves. Inevitably dark creatures knew when to tread lightly around another dark creature.

As much as her transfer to internal affairs was a fragile subject it was not really the crux of their slowly drifting apart; it was a small part of a larger thing he was sure. It had too much to do with their own natures as it had to do with a promotion. As much to do with their own lives not fitting with the life of the other.

Sometimes he found Michael reminded him of himself; a notion that brought nausea to surface within him. He always viciously hoped Sharon never made that comparison even though he knew she sometimes did. Maybe that was a part of their troubles; that he reminded her of someone who let her down continuously. He sincerely hoped not. He did not want to belong in a category with a man who obviously left her in this dreadful state; he had no intention of belonging to a category of people who let her down.

Unfortunately that ship had sailed; somewhere down the road he had let her down – he just had no clue when or how.

Sometimes he wondered if they had ever been close to begin with; were they too independent and solitaire to let another being in – genuinely let another person into the dark depths of your own being. He was unsure; he only knew that even if he felt adrift from her he would always know more than everyone else about her. However much she seemed changed he would always be able to detect a little flicker of something familiar in her; it was not as if she had turned into something completely different. No, it was merely a new layer of illusions he was treated to.

There was something faded and muted about her now; even as she bounced the little guy on her hip and affectionately brushed the hair away from her daughter's eyes; a smile to calm her kids and him down with. It was a smile that dug claws into his heart and wrenched it out; it was forced and artificial. A film across her gray eyes that told him that when the curtains fell aside she would look intensely disheveled.

He guided them down the hallway – to the guest room, mindful of not placing his hand on her back; he had a distinct feeling that touch would make her recoil. She had that little shadow in her eyes that told an entire story by itself; touch was out of the question. He merely consented himself with being able to lift Mischa up and carrying the sleepy seven-year old.

The guest room was fortunately prepared; his own kids nearly the same age coming to visit in the weekend. He slipped the bag from her shoulder and guided them along; he ruffled Mischa's hair as well, the girl now seven clearly able to tell that something was wrong with her mom – subdued and tired. The girl clung to him.

Turning the lights on he watched Sharon tugging her boy into the large bed in the room, helping him under the covers – stroking his hair and her quiet calm tone lulling the kid to sleep before the covers were firmly around him. He nudged Mischa and she crawled under the covers as well, joining her brother. Sharon sat on the edge of the bed and started telling them a little story – he quietly said goodnight to them and left for his bathroom; she seemed to want to be alone with them.

Brushing his teeth while he waited for her to tug both kids in, he wondered what had happened. An argument? Words spoken that should never be spoken – words meant to do harm. Maybe the guy had been too drunk? Staggered home and woken everyone up? He knew Michael; he would never lay a hand on Sharon – would never content to sleeping around. He imagined it was angry words; sometimes they did the most harm. He was all too familiar with angry words that slipped past your lips without conscious effort, too aware of what sometimes broke families apart.

Looking into the mirror as he brushed he found his own reflection just as tired looking as the kids' had been; he was maybe just as ready to drop down on the floor and fall asleep. Somehow her situation made him tired; somehow it drained him of all energy to see her like this.

She came to stand in the doorway to the bathroom, looking ready to either crumble or yell at him if he approached her, arms crossed – defensive and ready to ward anything off. The windbreaker was gone, just the soft pajamas – satin green. One hand kept pushing hair behind her ear; another little indication to her uncertainty. He wanted to pull her into a hug.

"_You take the bed, I'll take the couch_," he told her as he put his toothbrush under water.

She merely nodded and went in the direction of his bedroom. He followed soon after, not sure it was safe to let her merely be. Maybe she needed to talk. He needed to be sure she would not crumble all alone.

She was lying on her back in his bed, staring into his ceiling – looking distant. He hovered in the doorway; not sure if he should sit down and try to talk to her – if she would recoil if he touched her cheek. He chose to sit down on the floor next to the headrest of his bed, breathing silently as he waited for her to maybe start.

She did not say a single thing; maybe he was supposed to break the silence and not her.

"_Are you alright? Did something happen?_"

"_I just could not stand to sleep in that house._"

"_Michael's home?_" he ventured.

"_D.C – we had a,_" she paused, "_disagreement over the phone_."

"_Okay._"

"_Are you gonna sit on the floor for the rest of the night?_" she sounded annoyed.

Uncertain as well he stood up, ready to go into his living room; maybe turn the television on again and try to fall asleep but she spoke again when he turned towards the door.

"_Don't go – just don't sit on the floor._"

What the heck did that mean; she still looked as if she would break into a thousand pieces if he neared her. Reluctantly he sat down on the other side of her, and then when she continued to be silent he likewise slipped beneath the covers.

He sighed, and looked up at the ceiling as well.

He was not sure what to do; did she merely want him to lie next to her, tense as a board – did she want him to hold her – grasp her hand and tightly hold it. Did she want him to whisper words of comfort? He had no idea where to begin.

Contemplative and feeling slightly distressed now himself he wondered why she had even showed up at his place; when he was obviously so ridiculously stunted when it came to giving comfort. It was something that came natural to her; but he was unsure how he was supposed to behave towards her.

He did not necessarily hate her husband he found himself thinking but he found him to be nothing short of despicable in this moment. Whoever would leave her like this; who would be able to distort her to the point of that look in her eyes and that smile to accompany it?

He ruminated about that look; such a novel look when he had opened his door and she had stared right into his eyes, before she had averted her gaze. It was cold, detached – yet so imbued by something entirely else. It was not the hurt look of winter; no it was different. He likened it to a spring morning; eyes and that smile significant of deeper woes in her being.

Spring morning, even more devastating than dead winter, he mused. Dead winter was always palpable and vivid; spring morning afforded you with ambiguity. Too many shades too it to be deciphered without a bit of complexity. Dead winter left no confusion in his mind; it was a very vivid feeling he had come to terms with – spring morning as he came to know it was at first inscrutably and could cover any number of things.

Winter in her eyes was never fragile; hurt and agonized but never fragile. Spring morning might appear just as cold and undeterred; but that smile gave her away – it was encompassed by a brittleness in her he had never encountered before.

He heard the uneven breaths suddenly; could almost feel the tension in her rigid body next to his as she tried to suppress tears.

He turned on his side, watched her in profile.

"_Would you mind just sleeping on the couch,_" her voice was small but forceful; she desperately wanted him nowhere near her when she started crying. It nearly broke his own heart and he found it hard to swallow.

Yet he left her; gently slipping out of his bed and only turning around in the doorway and giving her a gentle look. He could never deny a request of hers; even if it seemed insane to leave her alone.

In the living room he sank down onto his couch but he hesitated.

It felt horrible; he was not equipped to handle her pain; she had never told him how to comfort her – it had always been the other way around.

In the morning however she would be collected; it was something that seemed very definite about her – somehow he knew that tomorrow her smile would be a little bit brighter. Tomorrow she would pretend nothing was wrong; the kids would most likely be fooled.

In the morning she would be even more distant than now; in the morning she would have replaced fragile with unapproachable.

Sighing, he thought he would never be able to sleep.

Getting up he went into his bedroom again, not surprised to find her in the exact same position, still awake. She did not say anything when he slipped under the covers again; her eyes however followed him. So vivid, full of unshed little watery drops, lips slightly apart as she tried not to take too shallow breaths – long deep breaths instead to steady herself.

He studied her, his head in his hand, on his side.

Cautiously he slipped his hand down an arm, tangled his fingers with hers.

She came closer, her body warm next to him – eyes flickering at the ceiling suddenly, not meeting his gaze.

It was okay.

He kissed her temple; let his head fall down on the pillow below.

She turned around suddenly, her face close to his and her lips upon his before he could draw any conclusion about her eyes.

She had never kissed him before; not in any way that counted.

The first time they met they had kissed but he only remembered it vaguely; it had not been like this. Soft lips – almost tasting of a little salt as she slowly left an imprint of herself on his mouth. It was not a long kiss or even a sensual one; it was like a gentle little caress.

Like a human anchor; a little thing to connect them – to realign and reassure that however much they drifted from each other there would always be some kind of connection.

He brought his arms around her, held her tight – felt the unsteady air she breathed against his neck.

He kissed the top of her head.

He would stay with her till she fell asleep – till the morning light slowly started showing; go and sleep on the couch before the kids woke up.

**/**


	7. Beneath the Waves

**/**

**Part 7: Beneath the Waves**

**/**

It was the year 1992; and it was a calm year for a change. It was the calm waters after a storm, so still and tranquil you were just a tad suspicious – too immersed in the feeling of knowing chaos that a peaceful existence felt too fragile. Too used to darkness to not glover a bit at the sun; too set in old ways to not really trust new ones.

Calmness felt peculiar and strange.

Nonetheless, he tried to hang unto it; felt he had in some way deserved it. The more he hung unto the feeling, the more it integrated itself within him; tempered him into a calm sea as well.

The moment he turned his key in his door and opened it he knew something was wrong. It was not a sinister foreboding – but the way you know something is wrong when you notice something that's out of order; when you notice high black heels neatly lined next to your own sneakers on your shoe-rack.

Black heels that left no doubt in his mind; he quickly dispensed of his own shoes and jacket – threw his briefcase on the floor before he wandered further inside his own apartment, caught between a strange emotion of curiosity and apprehension.

Calmness was very far from his grasp now; foremost the sudden notion that just maybe something was seriously wrong.

The hallway smelled of something sugary – warmth from his oven being in full mode hitting him the moment he ventured into his kitchen, the air hot and dense. His kitchen occupied by a person he was unsure of; uncertain what façade she would greet him with.

She was volatile as of late; unstable and untethered. Her being had become darker – more shrouded in mystery and uncertainty. She had become a very different creature; he was never sure if she would bite if he came too close.

He knew it was another illusion; knew it was her way of trying to find her own balance. However many layers of fickle mood swings she chose to wrap herself in he recognized the very vulnerable, fragmented person within them.

Sharon was perched on his kitchen counter, legs crossed and bare feet dangling, glasses on the brink of her nose as she was perusing a fashion magazine – the window into his oven displaying something that looked remotely like scones. He felt more apprehensive now than curious; this was something new.

The kitchen was otherwise spotless; not a single little spot of even flour that told him she had been baking except for the evidence quite obvious in his oven – that and her presence.

She surprised him; they rarely showed up on each other's doorstep anymore; he had never found her merely sitting inside his apartment before. It was a new, somewhat frightening experience; and the reason he felt more apprehension than delight at seeing her. New things never tended to be a good thing when it concerned her. Suspicion lingered in the back of his mind; usually they only sought out each other when the world tumbled off its hilt – usually their relationship was a creature's comfort. Naturally he felt compelled to analyze everything – pick every little detail about her apart and wonder what made her suddenly decide to not only come to him but likewise hover around his empty apartment for just long enough to start baking.

"_Breaking and entering now, are we?_" he grumbled, cautiously moving further into the kitchen – not sure what this was and how he was supposed to behave. He was not sure what creature would greet him; the last time he had seen her she had been alternating between crying and stony silence. Last time she had been afraid of touch; recoiling the moment he tried to squeeze her shoulder – she had been afraid of meeting his gaze, avoiding eye contact.

There was something strange about this scenario; something that told him to be on his toes.

At his voice she looked up – a wide smile, eyes crinkled, "_Technically you gave me a key decades ago._"

"_So you decided to come here and bake,_" he looked into the oven again, "_scones?_"

She arched an eyebrow and gave him a look; one that said he was being silly. It had no effect, the eyebrow was merely a little instrument in keeping up the appearance – there was something behind her warm eyes. That wide smile and those warm eyes were too much in contrast with what he knew – it felt like a very fragile façade – one that would crumble the moment he took a wrong step.

"_I was bored,_" she put down the magazine, uncrossed her legs and crossed them again.

It was a lie; they both knew it.

No, she was nervous. Fingers combing strands of hair behind her ear, flitting to the edge of her skirt, smoothing non-existent wrinkles – coming to her other hand and fiddling – taking her glasses of, putting them on again. Her eyes were warm but her smile was too wide – it seemed nervous to him as well. As if she was trying to calm herself down with a smile.

Walking further into the kitchen, coming closer to her he saw her smile widening, further blossoming and deepening. It was somehow ingrained in him but wide smiles made him nervous as well; lips too curved to elicit anything but hesitation in him – what was she hiding? What dark little purpose had led her here; what thoughts propelled her into tensile smiles?

He arched an eyebrow, his own mouth pulled apart in a half grimace, half acknowledging smile.

She jumped down from the counter, fingers pulling glasses off again while her other hand nervously flittered across the surface of the counter, a little pattern that was meant to assuage herself he knew. She only made weird hand gestures when she was nervous or on edge; only when she was too occupied by something to have enough control over wayward hands that suddenly had a mind of their own.

Free from the barrier of her glasses, her eyes regarded him with something hidden – her head tilted the closer he came to her. Gray eyes suddenly seeming more comprehensive than before; no glass to obscure.

"_You alright?_" he asked her, almost hesitant – he was not sure if he would like her answer. It was not unlike transference when it came to assessing her sometimes; it would always overwhelm him and he would end up in the same little world she was in – he was bound to feel just as inflicted by whatever bothered her.

"_Yes,_" she smiled, teeth white and small. Her hands smoothed down her skirt again, flittering in such a nervous pattern he felt almost forced to grip her wrists and make it stop.

Another lie; this one even more tangible than the other.

They were both creatures of habit and both too bound by their masks but usually they never bothered to lie – they swathed themselves in evasion instead. Naturally the moment something untruthful slipped from her lips it felt too dense when it hit his skin.

There was something she desperately needed to tell him but was afraid to utter; it was clear in the tense stance she had taken, in the smile – in her eyes. Her whole being screamed with something; it was not distress per se – it was not something he had encountered before, he thought – only it reminded him of something.

It reminded him of dark secrets, left in the night – too precious for daylight. One of those rare moods that had always seemed intangible to him; one of those moods where she was just as likely to pounce as she was to flee. Always the hint of something hidden and secretive on the edge of her lips – eyes sparkling warmly albeit nervously.

It was a matter of extracting it from her; he knew it would not slip past the barrier of her teeth before he somehow assured her. It was a matter of changing tactic; sometimes she needed a little encouragement – sometimes it needed to be coaxed out of her.

Quickly he stepped into her space; too hurried for her to flee or comprehend his intention. His arms went past on either side of her, a little human trap, hands on the surface of his kitchen counter behind her – standing too close for her comfort he knew. Too close for her to hide anything in her eyes; the gray irises surrounded by small flecks of barely green today; curious yet uneasy he gathered from their wide look – from the sudden smile that kept on broadening. He gave her a wolfish grin, knew she would pretend she was not ruffled – knew she would latch onto his own smile like a drowning rat.

This reminded him of the time they used to frequent the gym together, used to drink beers together. That time seemed to belong in a different universe sometimes; it felt like a very solid foundation in hindsight, one he wished had never gone in this direction. Alas sometimes relations changed throughout time; sometimes you had to give space for things to evolve on their own. Enforcing something along would never give way to anything prospering. Wild flowers flourish in their own little world; their own rules apt for only themselves and a mystery for everyone else.

Again her smile gave her away – again her eyes painted a different picture. However fickle their relationship was she would still remain somewhat readable to him.

Another step forward and his legs brushed hers. He could feel the perturbed reverberations of her breaths, feel the tension in her as she readied herself; eyes almost wavering when he continued to look at her.

She said the last thing he had expected to leave her lips.

"_I haven't had sex in three years,_" she said in a quick breath, the words delivered with haste and a tone he could not decipher.

The words surprised him as much as the tone – as much as that wide, wide smile. Suddenly he felt as flustered and as nervous as she appeared – this was not in any way what he had imagined. This was too intimate for them; it was too close – it was deliriously one of those things they never talked about.

"_You've only been separated four months_"

"_I know_"

Was it any surprise he felt conscious of her now – conscious on a level that he rarely contemplated. All of a sudden he felt awfully sentient to how close they were – how small she appeared in between his arms. He was standing too close to her; but moving away was equally uncomfortable. He was certain he had now adopted the same look as her; the same nervous smile and the same weird look in his eyes.

"_So you came here – to do what?_"

Her teeth shone now and her smile turned even more anxious.

"_I contemplated going to a bar – getting plastered. But I haven't picked anyone up in decades – I don't even want to have sex with a stranger._ _I cannot,_" she stopped, her eyes averting and avoiding him now, "_I'm not even sure I want to have sex with anyone._"

This felt like being overwhelmed by something you had in no way expected; like slick dark oil slipping beneath his skin and sluggishly moving through his blood; stealing away any notion of knowing what he was supposed to do. He watched her twitch, felt her body twitch against his arms – too close to him. It was practically a hug.

This felt surreal – but again it felt natural.

It felt novel – yet it was not something he had never contemplated.

Exciting to the point of nauseous.

It would be a lie to pretend he had never thought about her like that; they had after all started their acquaintance with a failed drunken attempt to have sex. They had laughed about it years after; but only in that way you laugh about something intimate you have done when you've been drunk – a nervous sort of laugh. A laugh meant to wash it away in a flow; meant to somehow deter its underlying implication.

They had never talked about it in any way that counted.

Sometimes she was a very vivid imagery in his mind and sometimes he pulled her forth from the depths with force; when it struck his fancy. But it had always been dark and forbidden to imagine her in explicit scenarios. During their acquaintance it had been a thing that came and went; sometimes it never crossed his mind – mostly it was a myriad of other women in his fantasies. Only because she was buried in a dark abyss, a directive claiming her off limits – signs flashing 'danger' when he approached the mere prospect of wanting to fantasize about her.

Now it felt more strange than wrong. Strange in the way you suddenly come upon a conclusion you reached years ago. They would have had sex a long time ago if neither of them had been too drunk. They would have had sex again if neither of them had been in love with other people. They would have had sex if they had not both been too noble to commit adultery.

It felt like a suddenly strange dark notion to realize this.

Air trapped in his own lungs he watched her chest rise and fall, unsteadily as well; his gaze suddenly became fixated on the small buttons that kept her blouse together. The small little buttons that moved with the motions of her ribcage – moved to the rhythm of her breaths, outlining the way her chest rose.

However much he could comprehend that neither of them were opposed to the idea he could still not say whether it would be a good idea. He was unsure whether their relationship could hold up the weight of sex being encompassed in it; was unsure whether it would be sex at all.

They had never touched much; the few times it had been tender between them had always been in the aftermath of catastrophe, had always been layered in the tensile emotion of distress. The few times touch had been without turmoil to power it, it had always been too intimate – it had always overwhelmed them and brought them into world of hesitance. Sex with her would be so much more than a friendly little caress, so much more than a simple little kiss to the forehead.

It would change the dynamic profoundly.

It would create another avenue for trouble, he was sure.

It would be something he was certain could not be taken back; unlike small little comforts in times of need.

Yet he was intensely fascinated by her now; the thought of them together had already integrated within him – it had already begun to be envisioned. Maybe it had only been awakened, he mused.

Otherwise why was he so consumed by a feeling of both nervousness and anticipation?

Without further thought his hand landed on her hip, splayed on the clothed hipbone. She breathed a little heavier at the contact, a surprised flavor to the air that left her lips. Gray eyes narrowed as they observed his hand, caught onto his arm and quickly came back to his own gaze. Shadows flickering in the depths as she regarded him.

Touch had never been with this undercurrent before.

"_The last time I had sex it was angry drunk sex,_" she confided in him; hesitant eyes once again coming to his hand touching her hip; as if she was not sure what it was doing there – whether it had permission or not.

"_You're the only one in my life I feel in any way comfortable with,_" her tone was shaky now.

She had never been this forthcoming before, never this nervous and sweet. It slipped into his bloodstream and felt like an ache of some kind; he felt compelled to comfort her. There was a presence about her that was fragile and he wondered whether she knew what she really wanted - wondered if she was caught in a whirlwind of indecision and feeling unloved.

It did not really matter; the natural progression for them would inevitably at some point in their lives have led to this; he was certain – it had somehow only been postponed from the moment they had woken up in that dingy hotel room years back.

It felt overwhelming, as if something inside of him was bursting to spring forth; bursting to climb out of his skin and bring forth contact between them.

He leaned forward and sealed his lips onto hers; a slow progress in case it was the wrong move – slowly approaching her, unsure himself – lips suddenly coming closer and closer till they touched. Motionless lips against lips – heavy breaths warm against each other.

A small surprised gasp vibrated against his mouth when he moved his lips, both seeking to nervously figure out their way around each other, suddenly coming out of stasis and moving. They needed to be further aligned; further connected – he brought hands to her neck and the back of her nape; kept his lips on hers, molding and slipping further in between her suddenly pliant lips.

Sex was a mere byproduct of what she wanted he realized – she seemed too nervous for merely suggesting they slip their clothes off and connect. No, the nervousness stemmed from something else – something he knew without having to ask her. She wanted to be loved. She wanted to feel loved. But it was a buried desire; not something he was even sure she had acknowledged herself. Not that love was absent in their relationship - but it was again a little dark thing they never spoke about.

He had known for a long time that he loved her but it had always been an inscrutable love – he had never really mastered to take this feeling apart and examine it. It felt like a very strange feeling of love; he loved her more than he imagined was possible but still less than what felt like being in love. It flickered in him; never really seeming to take a constant distinguishable form.

He knew she loved him in her own way; he knew her too well for her to hide it. But like most of her he never had the full comprehension, only small fragments to conclude anything from.

They were too alike in that aspect he gathered.

She was too independent to ask him to merely love her; no it was easier to tell him she wanted sex; too used to roam the savanna as her own dark creature to reveal the most conflicted inner part of herself. It was a shield of self-protection in essence; one they both wore down to the small little cells of their being.

Undoubtedly he could have her unclothed and pinned against his body and kitchen table in a manner of a second, they could be writing against each other in sweat and moans; only he knew there was a reason she was trembling beneath his hands – knew there was a reason they had both postponed this for a long time.

This felt as brittle as spring morning he surmised.

She would most likely balk at seeing him naked.

No, better to keep it slow - gentle.

Her hands finally moved from their rigid stance and came to rest on his shoulders, changing between a soft touch and a hard grip; indecisive and nervous.

His hands went in front of her, latched on the small buttons in her blouse – he undid the top three ones before he felt her inhalations becoming more aggravated, her body abruptly tense. Smoothing the fabric down he slid his hands around to her back, bringing her closer – his thumb along her waist in a caress meant to soothe.

Slowly her fingers settled into the back of his head, her mouth turned from mere participation to an insistent tug – her body coming closer and nestling into his own.

Reciprocating he pressed himself closer as well, pressed her into the counter, hands travelling down the sides of her and up under the hem of her skirt; she made a little noise in the back of throat – hands tightening in his hair.

Letting go of her lips he stopped, kept his hands on the back of her thighs – unmoving.

They were both out of breath; both with strange looks in the eyes he assumed. He felt just like she appeared; confused and aroused.

This would never work out here in his kitchen – it would be too out in the open. Too tangible and real; so he tugged her away from the counter, squeezing her hand.

They moved to his bedroom; turning the oven off and silently slipping into his bed – undressing with averted eyes. She slipped under his covers and he barely registered her bare flesh and the color of her underwear before she had the cover up to her chin, a small little self-aware smile on her lips.

Tension coursed through his body and he found it hard to prevent his hands from trembling as he undressed in front of her, watching how she could not decide where to look; eyes on him one moment and then suddenly flickering away as if she was unsure whether she was supposed to look at him.

It felt as if it was on the cusp of becoming awkward. They were both putting too much effort and thought into it – it lacked that succinct steady flow where it would naturally evolve and naturally run its course. It was partly fear that had somehow settled into his being; partly a nauseating emotion that was entirely too overwhelming. Crossing boundaries always afflicted him with a sense of nausea amidst adrenaline and exhilaration.

Mindful of her he kept his boxers on; he had a feeling she would become even more flustered if he slipped under the covers completely naked. They needed just a little barrier to feel comfortable.

Under the covers they appraised each other; the same stricken look mirrored in their eyes.

This was beyond ridiculous; he would have laughed at the both of them if it had been any other time. He had a fleeting thought this would be easier with a glass of wine and in the middle of the night. It was daylight and he was too aware of the smallest little flicker of emotion on her face; too sober not to feel conscious of every little movement, every little hesitation to their approach.

Maybe this was like taking that first dip into the ocean in the period stuck between winter and spring; you merely had to jump – no time to consider the coldness or the consequences – merely leap.

Edging closer to her under the warm covers he took her head in his hands and pulled her in for a kiss; the tingling of lips assuaging their nervous disposition. Maybe they just needed to get this started a bit and they could stop contemplating what it meant – what it would mean.

He tangled his fingers in her hair, tangled a leg over her thigh and drew her into him – legs between each other. Her skin burned like a furnace, soft warmth where the pad of his fingers landed on skin. It was not unlike being covered in a barrier by his bed sheets; it provided just the amount of a shield against hesitation. Like being underground, encased in something that would protect you from outside disturbances – it made her skin warm and made her eyes glow with something besides caution.

Sucking her bottom lip into his mouth, he let his hands traverse down her spine, latched onto lace and drew her underwear down – left it somewhere at the end of the bed, covered by his linen. His hands travelled up her legs again – fingers in a pattern upwards on her inner thigh.

She hid her face in the crook of his neck the moment his hand came too close, breathed too controlled into his skin for it to anything but a little nervous.

His fingers quickly left her inner thigh and slid up her back to undo the clasp to her bra.

Maybe it was merely the undressing that felt a bit awkward.

Her hands flitted to his muscles of his back, gripped hard around his hips – her lips travelling from his neck, up along the arch of his throat and latched onto his own again, an urgency in her kiss.

He was inclined to agree with her; this needed to be hurried along; it needed to become too forceful and too intense before it became too awkward.

She drew his boxers down and he flipped them over, her legs coming around his waist as he entered her – his mouth on her neck. He settled his hands around the back of her nape and drew her into a kiss as he slid out of her, trust into her again – her legs tightening around his middle, her hands holding unto his back.

Yes this was much better – no going back, just sensation and exhilaration. He kissed her upper lip, drew the bottom one into a continuous caress – he needed to compress himself into her mouth as he slowly kept an unhurried rhythm.

They could always fuck some other time; he only wanted to watch her – to kiss her.

She seemed to agree, hands soft on his cheek – a caress down his throat, lips tender against his – her legs warm against his skin.

Shit he thought; it would not even matter if neither of them climaxed – he would be content to merely float away on this feeling – too unhurried to be anything but like swimming underwater. Strange and yet so comforting – subdued in a way that made you feel as if you were in another world; strange lights that made you too enticed. Too overwhelming; it stole his breath away.

She breathed against his lips when he changed the angle a bit, eyes so clear he wanted to remember them, so clear and filled with color he had never seen before. He had nothing to compare it to; nothing felt like an adequate description. Vivid clear; nothing to shadow her being.

Her breath was warm – humid as it slipped unto his own skin – gaspy breathy air that enquired more depth – enquired one hand around the back of her knee and another change in angle.

Breathy air that turned to a little tone – rough little tone in the back of her throat when another leg anchored itself up higher.

An intake of breath that seemed to last too long, arched neck – it enquired strain in his spine but he needed to kiss her again.

An exhalation that enquired they forgone this position; he needed her as close as possible, chest against chest, legs curled around him, groins close as they rocked against each other, lips attached to necks, to the little point where their carotid artery drew force upon force of pulsation.

Clear vivid eyes that begged for every little skin cell on their bodies to be connected.

It felt like being underwater immersed in each other; he was not sure he could comprehend anything but her. His world had plunged into a construction around only her – it bereaved him of air, of breath – he had to kiss her to not drown.

In essence it was subtle yet too overpowering; it was tender yet too forceful – slow yet impatient (in essence it stole his breath away and yet gave him pause to breathe).

In essence it integrated itself into him and he treasured lying naked with her afterwards maybe even more than the act in itself; felt thrown into a world of underwater illusions – skin warm against his own warm skin. Mouths still travelling across the span of skin – fingers slipping around on skin to cool – to warm – to elicit a continued connection.

Trapped under the hot blaze of his bed sheet, entangled. She had him trapped in her web; trapped in the fantasy of wanting to exist in the same little orbit as her – entombed in the color of her irises; clear and see-through all the way to the bottom. It was a rarity; a compelling little rarity of her that swept through his skin stealing away any notion of knowing her fully before this very moment.

Her being had always been a well-guarded secret; complex layers upon layers – he found himself unraveling novel little features of her as time moved on, caught in a peculiar feeling when he came upon a new little aspect of her. This felt close to clarity.

That wide nervous smile – those very vivid eyes; he filed both components away to contemplate later.

She tangled her legs further with his, slid up his chest – mouth seeking out his again; both too complacent and drowsy to do anything but languor in this little nest of warmth and that little strange feeling you get afterwards. Trapped in an aftermath that seems even more poignant than the act – more potent than intense touch and overwhelming climax.

Soft lips that kept finding his, inevitably soothing in touch – almost motionless kisses with a noticeable momentum. Fingers begging for contact – hands tender across his chest. Traversing so softly up his throat – lingering on his jaw – lingering behind his ears.

Again that little breathy sigh; a little tone of warmth that she caressed his skin with when her lips left.

Still her lips were graced with a wide smile, still a little nervous tilt to her being.

"_What happened?_" he asked her, anchoring his body closer to hers – instinctually knowing it was bound to inflict her with hesitance, "_Why this today?_"

There had to be a reason behind it all; a reason she had shown up today – had chosen to draw a little new line into their shared sand. With her there was always an intent behind her actions that went beyond mere happenstance; she had not simply chosen to perch on his kitchen counter today – no, something had catapulted her into his orbit.

"_Doesn't matter,_" her voice slithered across his lips before she started another kiss; a little connection meant to assuage him, meant to deter him – the little edge of danger in the hidden depths already anticipated by him.

Evasion was always easier than the truth.

It was a bit inconsequential, he would give her that. Chuckling, he pinned her down into the mattress; it did not really matter what little event had thrown her in this direction – he knew something had happened and it was enough. Motivations were always twofold with her; he did not begrudge her the little secrets.

Her eyes widened when his hands travelled down the side of her abdomen, over her hipbone before traversing in a line he knew would not create any doubt about its intended direction. Her lips fell slightly apart and he caught the small specs of apprehension mixed with arousal in her eyes; caught on the breathy gasp that enquired exactly what he intended.

Whatever had thrown them into this change, whatever had made this thing between them transform – it was inconsequential in this very moment – this moment was percolated by something altogether different than the need to uncover dark secrets.

It was drenched in the need to uncover her body; skin cell by skin cell – the need to catalogue every little expression to her face – every little tone that would inevitably leave her lips.

In essence it was about capturing her in these rare moments and lingering in them; he knew from experience they never lasted that long.

**/ **


	8. A Gathering Storm

**/**

**Part 8: A Gathering Storm**

**/**

It was the year 1994; and it was the aftermath of the year before – the preceding year the epitome of setbacks. The repercussions of a year he would rather altogether did not exist.

Misery had left him drowning in his own pool of whiskey and darkness – 14 months of sobriety poured into the drain when the world had suddenly seemed too sinister, darkness enveloping him and drowning him before any measure of counterforce could be used. 14 months of sobriety being pulled apart so easily it left him feeling even more despaired.

Naturally the present was permeated by a cautious approach – his existence carefully balanced on tentative steps. Fear seemed to go hand in hand with caution; afraid to fall back into a world of trouble that would no doubt only bring him under dark water for good. It was a paralyzing fear that gripped him; the notion that one little wrong turn in his life would inevitably lead directly back into throwing sobriety away again.

He just felt worthless.

Weak and utterly worthless.

It had overwhelmed him – maybe he had been too complacent in his sudden victory; it had felt like an assault out of thin air – something unexpected lodging itself into his heart and holding unto him with a heavy grip.

Dead kids and a pedophile on the loose; and his world tumbled into darkness – relief came in forgetting everything. Oblivion only accomplished by drinking. Suffice it to say that 1993 had been a dark underground of broken promises and a frazzled mind. One weekend soaked in whiskey and a whole year had turned into something despicable in remembrance. It was not even a big failure, his sponsor had tried telling him; he had only gone on the bender for a few days and then managed to steer back to sobriety – it did not matter it still felt like a massive failure to him.

Presently five months of sobriety felt too fragile. It felt like a very weak foundation. Five months was nothing; it was too insubstantial to bring any comfort or relief to him. Presently it was better to swathe himself in warm brash aggression; he found it kept brooding depression from colliding with him. Aggression kept him from throwing those precious five months into the drain as well; it was about survival now.

Aggression would keep him going, would fan his existence into adrenaline and fire – whereas depression would only feel lukewarm and not help him in any way.

"_People are going to talk if you continue to grope my backside_"

Her voice was dark and slightly amused; her breath warm against his jaw as she tilted her head back and looked up. Her body pressed into his, her hands warm on his back – swaying to music would be a better description that actual dancing. The lights were low in the high ceilinged ballroom; a calm presence of being swept in half darkness and in her presence. It was somewhat soothing – but not enough to keep him completely out of dark thoughts and self-doubt.

"_Nothing to do about that; they started talking the moment you agreed to dance with me,_" he grumbled back, his hands splayed on the small of her back, every now and then sliding down over curves. It was a forceful incentive; he needed to touch some part of her – connect and pull himself further into her presence. To remind him of the present; bring himself into remembering that he had been sober five months. However insignificant it seemed now, it was better than nothing.

"_They'll talk even more when I slap you into the next century_"

Flashing a dark grin he continued to let his hands linger low on her back, defiant and smug in his assurance that she would resort from actually doing anything about it. She abhorred any form of public display – loathed it when he pulled her unceremoniously into touching in public; which rarely happened. She would not do anything that would pull more attention to them; hence she was much more likely to scowl than actually slap him.

Once in the hallway outside the squadroom of the gang division they had met and he had touched her cheek. It had been an unconscious act; he still remembered waking up with her in the early morning light – remembered motionless kisses shared. He knew the guys from the gang unit had given her crap; so compelled by nature he had reached out and lightly touched her cheek. At the tender contact she had practically stalked off, huffing and glowering. He narrowed it down to the fact that she was always on her guard at work; constantly prepared to meet resistance and sour attitudes; she recoiled from anything resembling concern then.

As far as everyone was concerned they barely knew each other; Lieutenant Flynn was the skirt chaser of homicide and Lieutenant Raydor the cold bitch from I.A. Sometimes these reputations amused him, sometimes they annoyed him. When they happened to be dancing closely together – even if it was an annual little habit – it confused many. In the end however most chalked it down to the event; everyone was a bit unusual at these gatherings.

She always looked so lonely at these functions; even if she talked with other people and appeared to have a well-rounded intimacy with her own squad in internal affairs. They always danced together; it was a tradition – dating back to the days when she had worked in Narcotics. Back then they had jumped joyously around – soaring around on the dance floor with too much enthusiasm and laughter. Now it was slow and hesitant; close to each other yet so far apart.

He was not even sure she wanted to dance with him; even if she appeared faintly amused on the surface. She had been nothing but obscure since her separation; it had become almost impossible to gather her moods and what she wanted from him.

"_People will talk more if I don't grope your ass; I'm just being my colorful self_"

"_Then why don't you go grope some blonde_"

He ignored her gripe; "_Now that little smile on your face; that's a dead giveaway to gossip – you're supposed to look smug or annoyed – not this peaceful_"

It was that one time of the year where everyone became a little silly, the top brass drank too much – the young officers drank even more; and homicide detectives danced with internal affairs detectives. The annual police ball was as much a tradition among a large family as was a thanksgiving; it was embodied by ritual and behavior that never really wavered much from the last function. Most importantly; old grudges and arguments were forgotten – which left the popular detectives dancing with the less popular ones.

Most importantly; he could dance with her in public, bodies close – small whispered conversation between them and no one would care much. No one noticed the obvious familiarity in which they danced – no one paid much attention to the fact that they always shared a dance at this event. More importantly; she grazed him with small smiles and familiarity in public.

"_You want me to look annoyed?_"

"_I'm just saying I'm not the one being talked about – my behavior is dead-on. Your behavior on the other hand is slightly uncharacteristic_"

"_I'm always uncharacteristic,_" she retorted in a voice that sounded unsure of what it wanted to reflect; caught between slight annoyance and slight amusement.

She had been nothing but unpredictable the last many years; always seeming to get stuck in between two emotions that shared nothing but contradiction. It was something that grazed his nerves raw; forced him to be stuck in the same opposing emotions. She always trapped him in her conflict even if he would rather not feel concerned. It was apparently inherent in him; whatever little ordeal she was going through happened to affect him with equal intensity.

"_Yes, my very own strange little creature_"

She smiled at the comment; even if he would have wagered it would have annoyed her. Again; every little thing he expected from her was nothing but the exact opposite. A comment sure to bring her into a warm smile in the past would suddenly turn her into a quiet stony silence – her disposition had turned more and more inconsistent and he felt unequipped to handle it.

It was something that settled into him with a very dense composition. He felt compelled to resort to erratic anger, resort to being similarly unpredictable. It was never a good sign.

Rationally it had nothing to with him per se; he knew that and he knew it was a conflict from her failed marriage. Still it nestled within him – prickling and itching. It was bound to bring them both into a deadlock of an argument sometime in the future. It was really the only thing he felt certain about; it was only a matter of time before they both went off their handles and catapulted together in some kind of fight.

They were both caught in an impatient little world – impatience never amounted to much besides trouble. This was merely the foreplay; the tensile, fitful foreplay to heated words. Weirdly enough it felt just as annoying as it felt slightly arousing. It was something he could feel building up within him; something that simmered between them with poignant potential. Maybe it would feel liberating when they finally let go and vented.

She stopped his hand from sliding further down, clutching around his arm and drawing his hand further up her spine; a respectful distance from the swell of her ass; her eyes dark as she gave him a little huff.

Besides the annual little dance there was nothing inappropriate in their relationship when they were both at the office; work never afforded them the opportunity or the need to touch or align their friendship. A little wave and a little acknowledging glint in their eyes were really the essence of their work personas when they accidently met.

No one would able to tell he knew her on a much deeper intimate level; no one would be able to comprehend the familiar bond they shared. His old partner had retired; and he was really the only one who had a little inkling about their friendship. The majority had forgotten Sharon had worked Narcotics; too many new faces and too many years had gone by. Sometimes even he himself forgot it; she seemed so naturally assimilated into her new façade that he had a hard time sometimes remembering she had been different – a hard time reconciling her new image with her old one.

Compartmentalizing was second nature to them both; it was an act that was even easier than donning different masks for different circumstances and people. They were both too familiar with different nuances of what you could present to others that compartmentalizing their relationship into different fragments was something that merely came to be. Despite never having actually talked about it they seemed to agree on wanting separate personal lives from work lives. He had a distinct feeling that if the two became too tangled it would only lead to chaos.

Maybe that was what was happening; maybe everything became entangled once you added sex into it. It would explain why their bond seemed on one hand more intimate and on the other it seemed even more fragile. It felt unstable; most of all. Encompassed by too much uncertainty – enveloped by too many emotions.

Another song started; he slid his lips into her hairline, down to her ear – his hands sliding over her hips in a little caress – no one would able to notice the extra little pressure he put into it. They would only see a brash lieutenant and assume he was whispering something lewd in her ear. Meanwhile he only let his mouth graze the outer shell, complacent in being able to detect the distinct scent of her, heavy in her hair and different in her skin.

Ignoring her little attempts to separate everything had become a little sport of his. It had become an incentive to pull her out of her comfortable bubble – push her off balance. It was a matter of trying to make her come undone; make her react. The reason his hands slipped down again; not too low to initiate anger but low enough to tell her he was content with groping her in public. Why he felt compelled to do this, he had no clue.

"_Now they'll think you're trying to seduce me,_" she breathed into his throat, paused and gave him another little dark hum, "_They'll start wagering whether I'll let you down gently or whether I'll rip you apart_"

"_Maybe they have a bit more confidence in my skills_"

She gave a snort. He gave a grin caught between a grimace and amusement.

She leaned closer, stood on tip toe to whisper in his ear; "_Maybe I'm the one doing the wooing_"

Her voice was dangerously close to something dark and syrupy; low and with that tantalizing timbre he had come to know as her in a dangerously teasing mood. An insidious but seductive mood that was an entire little story by itself. It was a capricious mood he never knew which direction it would choose to thread. Sometimes it greeted him with a teasing humorous connotation, sometimes it went in the other direction and became something that brought them together in darkness and pain. It was ever-changing. It enticed him fully; had him ensnared and trapped. It was a mood that travelled through his body in a tingle, alighting arousal and anticipation.

"_I'm going to kiss you if you continue with this,_" he told her, his voice a low warning. He would do it; kiss her till everyone noticed. She knew nonchalance catapulted him into rebellion; more importantly she knew that her low sultry voice went straight to his cock.

It was another little game; back and forth – trying to make the other stalk off in anger or annoyance. It never amounted to anything but intense desire coursing through their bodies, never amounted to much beside either repressed silence or heated exchanges of intimacy.

Anger was in the horizon but had yet to appear, had yet to inflict them.

Often he found himself wondering what they would be like entangled together in wrath; somehow he had an image in his mind that felt both compelling and repulsive. On one hand he never wanted anger to enter into their relationship but on the other hand he craved to somehow vent all his frustrations on her.

The corners of her lips turned slightly crooked, eyes almost two orbs of blazing fire – a warning as well. If he deigned to lean down and kiss her now it would result in something dark. It did not matter in any event. He knew exactly how their evening would end – he knew exactly what the night entailed.

Another little tradition – a little thing no one knew about. They always slipped out unnoticed and went home together; sometimes they went to his place, sometimes hers.

They saw each every now and then outside work; their relationship however fickle the only comforting constant in his life besides his kids. It was a strange notion that something that felt this obscure and unstable could bring you so intense comfort, could be a constant. It was a contradiction; but one he cherished.

It was a peculiar thing; however much everything had changed between them it still felt as if it was the same. Where he had expected an evolution there was only a slight different little branch to the complicated network of branches that made up the tree of their lives. It was not something that brought turmoil with it; no he was rather comforted by the knowledge that even though sex had been added into their relationship it was still so evermore encased by mystery and something beyond his comprehension.

The extra layer of intimacy only added another outlet for expressing themselves; it was as tenuous as any other aspect of them. Sex was not really the reason they were spoiling for a fight; it was every goddamn other little thing in their lives that came together in a mess. Sex was as much an aspect of that as everything else. He was certain that they would have been in this same situation if they had not added that extra layer of intimacy. He would still have loved her as intensely if they had continued in a platonic manner.

Nothing between them was ever definite; nothing was ever constant. And yet they were still in each other's lives; the bond between was still existent.

However close they were in both physical proximity and in the closeness that comes with knowing another person there was always this little layer of uncertainty to it. There was always a little part of her that remained elusive to him; always a little part he wasn't sure whether he wanted to unravel or not. There was a part of her that was outside his reach.

She was not ready for another man in her life; he knew that. She was not ready to suddenly pull him into category that did not make sense to any of them. No he would rather they continued as it were; the comfort of dark creatures every once in a while – the comfortable knowledge that no matter what she would always be there. The strength in their friendship was built on a foundation that might not be something they needed to forge every day but it was ever present.

But there was something different; something that had sneaked into their midst and was intent on wreaking havoc with them. Something novel. It had never been like this before.

They seemed to have wrapped themselves in darkness and low simmering clouds; preparing for a battle of some kind. It flared between them, in every exchange they had – it felt very tensile and volatile.

It was again a matter of nature; too alike in the mindset to imagine that a life completely together would be anything less than devastation – and yet still too dependent upon each other to simply let it be casual. That was really the crux of it.

She forswore men and had no intention to contemplate any kind of relationship with anyone that bordered on domesticity. He had no room for anything but sobriety. In that aspect it was perfect; they fit together maybe too well.

Something invisible had situated itself between them; intent on creating obstacles.

Again it was the impact of their separate lives that held too much gravity; it was not something he felt remorse about – not something he wished was different. It was the impact of the past that still lingered too vividly in their minds. Habits were hard obstacles to break. Nature was a complicated puzzle to figure out.

In essence she was a wild flower; he had no intention of uprooting her from the ground. He had no intention of putting her in shade, covering the sun – he did not intent to put her in an environment that would only make her brittle and wilted. He merely wanted to observe; possession had never been a part of them.

Dark creatures did not languor in the possession of others. They recoiled at the notion.

No, rather immerse himself into the moments when they actually came into contact, rather immerse himself in knowing that being so alike and yet so elusive brought just the right sense of belonging to someone in both of their lives.

Yet; why was he so consumed by the idea of claiming her? Why was the notion that she did not belong to him so heart aching it left him on the brink of insanity? It was a contradiction; a wile one. It went against his nature. It was the root of a tensile thing inside him – the reason the forecast read a storm on the horizon.

If only she would refrain from flickering in her demeanor; if only she would stop jumping from one end of a spectrum to the other end; constantly ever changing. She seemed determined on taking away any chance they had of remaining calm. She was spoiling for a fight; testing him as much as he was testing her.

"_I want to lick you from head to toe_," he whispered in her ear.

Dark shadows played in her hair as he watched the minute tightening of her eyes – a little smile playing dangerously on her lips. It was not a warm smile; it was liquid danger on her lips – only more menacing the wider she smiled.

He leaned down again, "_I want to fuck you on your kitchen table_"

Her lips curled further, eyes swirling with something that seemed to become darker and darker. Her eyes became a storm when she became this creature; a brewing gathering storm that always tipped him off balance. When she was in a tender affectionate mood they became clear water and so bright and vivid it took his breath away. But this was definitely a storm; so very different from clear eyes. A storm which only really meant she wanted to tear his clothes off; whether it would be in pleasure or in pain he had no idea.

Gathering dark shadows in her eyes meant she was feeling playful; similar to a predator showing glistening teeth at the prospect of a meaningful hunt.

She was a predator when she emerged like this; a creature he was sure would end up hurting him in some way.

The discernible glint of danger in her eyes told him her apartment was empty, told him her kids were at their father's place or at their grandma's place. Otherwise she would tilt her head and tell him he could do the fucking in his own apartment. Another thing she was peculiar with. She had become peculiar with a lot of things; it sometimes saddened him even if he knew there was a reason.

He had helped her move years back; helped her find an apartment big enough for the little family of three when she had just legalized the separation – before they had added sex into the mix. He had helped her paint the new place – had helped her unpack. He remembered stumbling upon a framed picture of her and the dead-never-mentioned-brother, the moving boxes littered across every surface of the floor, pristine walls painted in warm colors.

"_You were twins?_" he had commented, his head skewed as he observed her – another piece falling into place in his mind. There was no mistaking the two young adults in the picture; so very alike even if different gender; the same red shine to their hair – the same gray eyes – the same little chin and nose. The exact same upturn to their lips as they smiled in the photo.

"_Mm-hmm,_" she had hummed in response. But her eyes had been very murky and obscure as they regarded him; she had never mentioned the brother to him at all. She had a sudden color to her eyes that felt both familiar and new; it had just left him with the feeling that if he prodded into this subject she would close completely off – become aloof and throw him out with some obscure comment. She had taken the framed picture from his hands abruptly, fingers around the frame afraid he would somehow break it. He did not ask her about the brother again.

Instead he had helped her unpack another box; left the one obviously with family photos to her. He remembered that time as precious however; remembered lying on her new mattress on the floor – the bed had yet to arrive. The apartment had been so empty and devoid of anything but unpacked boxes and painting gear – her kids had been at their grandma's place. Yet it had felt nothing but warm and content to lay next to her, close to the floor and wake up to coffee and the morning sun – curtains had yet to arrive as well.

It had felt awfully domesticated; a fact neither of them had mentioned back then.

It had felt serene; even if moving brought her into a thing caught between winter and spring. She had been raw and shy; fragile at the notion that her marriage was over. Fragile at the notion of being unloved. Fragile because the bastard had in reality abandoned her even if separation was her incentive. He had foregone prodding into the distinction but he wondered why no one talked about divorce.

She had had trouble sleeping back then; one moment almost compressed against his side and the next as far away as possible from him. It had been a difficult time for her and yet now it had felt like a serene time. It was before they had made love; and still that time had felt maybe just as intimate as the time after that pivotal point in their relationship.

They had made love so many times now he had lost track; he never felt sex was an adequate description even if sometimes it was imbued by something animate and wild. They fucked as much as they made love; still he felt compelled to pile it into the same little category. He was not sure what to call it; sometimes it felt too fragile to describe it.

And yet there would be months where he neither talked with her nor touched her; again it was something that merely was.

In the end she would always suddenly catapult into his life; or he would end up in hers when he felt a need to.

**/**


	9. Gravity

**/**

**Part 9: Gravity**

**/**

It was the year 2001; and it was waters breaking, rippling currents. It was the promise of repetition; it was the foreboding of another impasse. Collision was always twofold when it came to their connection; either it was work or it was their personal lives that propelled them into a quarrel. When it was both components it was a lethal combination that always managed to bring them even further into an angry pool – it was not unlike a relentless stream of water when the collision turned personal. A force of nature that merely flowed till nothing remained but what had been there in the beginning. Sometimes the water was still and motionless but when they tumbled together it was a tumultuous sea of water.

In that aspect they were too delicate; their connection was both very sturdy and yet very weak. In that aspect they were both like knives; they cut clean through – through skin, through precious tendons – into the sinew, into the marrow.

It bothered him.

It had become a very tenuous essence to their relationship; the ability to clash together in conflict – their natures too rooted in causality. She poked him; he poked right back. He needled her to the point of anger; she naturally needled him right back.

Sometimes there was nothing to do but rile each other up, nothing to do but wait for the other to break – wait for the other party to offer surrender. The problem always arose to higher altitudes since none of them were likely to admit defeat.

Predators rarely backed down from a fight.

They lingered in fight mode. Wielded a shield of intensity and aggression; no wonder it always felt like an explosion – deafening, roaring; wild in appearance and uncontrollable in its implication. It always felt like being thrown down by the rising tide – surrounded by water suddenly on all sides.

Sometimes their fights became arousing in their intensity; sometimes they were rage incarnated. Sometimes they had a fluidity to them that reminded him too much of repetition – sometimes it was merely a masquerade and they laughed about it afterwards. It was the same and yet always so new when they collided.

It was strange but they had never been like this early on in their acquaintance. He gathered they had both been too afraid of collision back then; it would had broken their bond back then – now it kept them together as much as it pulled them apart.

Life was peculiar in that way, he found. He was sober, seven years and counting, and she was still separated, nine years and counting. He was evermore brash and easily aggravated but unlike years back it was a thing he was able to temper down – a thing he had somewhat mastered to a degree. It did not leave him in much trouble anymore. Maybe he was becoming soft in his old age; maybe being able to take control of his own life afforded him with a clear head and the ability to manage his anger issues. She, however, seemed evermore elusive – aloof and very distant in demeanor – it was a façade that suited I.A. magnificently.

The few times she had collided with robbery/homicide in her investigative functioning it had left him astounded. It was peculiar but he had always believed that the rat squad was not a suitable option for her; he was sorely mistaken. It was as much a natural element for her as narcotics had been – really it was a reservoir where she flourished – and advanced. She would never have been allowed to be a predator in the narcotics division; too many wolves and old gruffs – that place had been too conservative for her in hindsight. Now, everyone were aware of her nature; everyone were hesitant and on their guard.

Her bitchy attitude – he would never call it that to her face, but it was what he liked to call it in his own head – was as much a delightful thing as it was aggravating. It suddenly afforded them another little avenue for conflicts; it seemed to clash beautifully with his own sarcastic, aggressive behavior.

Back when she had transferred he had thought it was a matter of transformation within her; he had thought she had forced herself into a foreign role she did not fit – for the sake of working hours befitting two small kids and an absent husband, for the sake of some obscure reason. Now, he knew better. There had always been a competitive streak in her; despite all her gentle attributes, despite the small sweet disposition she had always comforted him with. I.A was not a façade; it was the blossoming of her dark creature – it was the natural progression for her, he was forced to admit to himself.

Maybe if he had known this little fact when she had transferred it would helped him understand, helped him to acknowledge her back then in a way he had not been able to. Maybe there would be fewer conflicts between them now; maybe they never would have drifted apart back in the late eighties.

I.A. was a perfect fit for her, perfect for intimidatingly roaming through their department and enforcing laws upon the rest of the animals of the savanna. There were hidden boundaries, hidden laws – there was obvious, clear and written ones; she was a natural in keeping everyone in line. Even if it made her into a resented outsider. Everyone was mindful of a leopard, however much they might begrudge its existence. It was her new environment and she had integrated herself into it with flair and perfection; just like she had in narcotics years back.

Even though he understood her function, even though he understood her choices, it was still an aggravation to him. He would rather she had merely stayed put; rather she had continued to inhabit the same place as him. Even if he could admit to himself that he understood her reason and saw how the role befit her, he would never admit it out aloud to her. Something held him back.

Life was never straightforward logic; it was never well rationalized action and well-thought behavior only.

They clashed when their divisions came head to head – they took everything and blew it out of proportion. Not unlike the clash of titans – each god mighty in his own reassurance. It was giants, righteous and sure in their foundation, that towered and tried to bring the other down, tried to overrumple in strength – whether it be well-worded sentences of reasoning or grumpy sarcastic deflection, it was always two opposing forces meeting in a storm.

She had a propensity for grating his nerves raw; a capability unlike any other living being. She had a knack for knowing exactly where to strike; always a calculating precision to her attack. She never did things halfway – naturally she was bound to take fights between them to an abnormal elevation.

She was his predisposition, in essence.

Collision was always a very vivid display – emotions always heightened even if surfaces were calm. It was always a reminder of her calculating nature for him. It felt like a brutal reminder. Somehow she changed whenever he became too complacent in his perception of her; he had suspicion she waited for the right moment and pounced when he least expected it. He had a suspicion she enjoyed tilting him off the edge.

That he gave back with even greater force he chose to relocate to a minor thing. That they were both to blame was always a revelation that only came in hindsight. Aggression and anger never gave way to rationality – it never led the way to reconciliation. Anger and aggression always led to placing blame on the other party. In that aspect she was sinister and he was a brute.

She was a silent deadly thing that always hit the target when she chose to launch an assault.

Naturally he struck back with equal fervor, always able to counter.

Unsurprisingly it was always a disaster.

It always ended with them backing into different corners, hurt and wounded and refusing to listen to the other. Sometimes it took weeks – months – to reconcile. The ramifications were always more brutal than he had imagined.

Unlike any other person she had the strange tendency to slip underneath his skin and light his being on fire; an inherent little ability to bring him from calm waters and into a fiery temper of liquid turbulence. Miniscule changes in facial expressions and carefully worded sentences and she could choose between tempering him down or lighting him on fire.

She knew exactly which buttons to push and exactly what to say to deter him from maintaining control.

That he was stubborn beyond imagination when it came to her was maybe as much a part of the equation as well; but he had never really felt inclined to analyze it too much. Until now, that is.

Now, it was a necessary requirement. It was a prerequisite; one that would ensure that they did not drift so far apart that coming back together would be an impossibility. When they ended up in a storm together, one that drew them into animate and uncontrolled anger, it would undoubtedly only end in heartache if they left it to rot by itself. When an inordinate amount of words were exchanged, words that were never meant to be said out aloud, it was a matter of great importance to take them back in some way.

He did not want a repeat of 1998; those wounds had never been mended properly – they had been left to fester. He did not want to go a whole year before they spoke again. That storm back then had been just on the brink of ruining them – it had destroyed almost everything between them. It was still a mystery how they had ever managed to close the gaping hole 1998 had left. Maybe time had healed the conflict to a degree – but it was something that seemed to itch now and them, reminding them of what had happened. Mostly he ignored it had happened, and he was sure she had relocated it so some far away nook in her mind as well.

When they clashed however, he was intensely reminded of 1998, so a little self-contemplation was in place.

Compulsion to rectify the situation was foremost in his mind; a small feeling of righteousness lagging behind. So much that he – despite still being in a hard grip of anger – knocked on her door, steeled himself against her uncooperativeness and fortified himself to resolve this somehow. Usually it was better to let her steam off; better to let himself calm down – but they needed to talk about this before it became one of those things they never talked about – before it started festering in their hearts with the rest of the raw, reeking darkness.

If fortune favored them the slightest they would both be too tired to continue their fight.

"_What do you want?_" she opened her door with a glare, a little frown directed sourly at him, "_It's 1 am_"

"_Were you asleep,_" he countered, voice equally rough.

"_No_"

"_Then what's the fuss?_"

"_You, being here_"

The comment turned his face into a grimace, and he mostly felt compelled to snap back at her. Somehow apologizing had been easier when they had been young. It was strange but it only became harder with age. Maybe it was the fact that their relationship was a lot more complicated now – it had become too tangled with emotions and the impact of being able to inflict the other with pain.

Sex complicated things – love even more so.

"_I will repeat; what do you want, lieutenant?_"

Her tone was not per se cold; it was indifferent. Neither warm nor cold; just a tone that felt almost frightfully dead in its neutral vibration. It did not bother him; he was used to a colorful spectrum of different voices when it came to her – he was always able to detect the different meanings behind the flavors. Indifference was not really indifference; it was merely a display of control on her part.

"_Invite me in_"

One of her eyebrows lifted and her eyes narrowed.

"_I don't think so – I'm_ -" she started, her door suddenly about to close.

One foot in, he managed to slip inside anyway. When she was already in this mood it did not really matter what he did; he might as well annoy her a bit more. When she found him annoying before he had done anything to deserve it he might as well live up to her expectation. Incidentally he knew it would rile her up, he knew it would force any notion of indifference to flee.

"_Andy!_" she exclaimed, her voice suddenly not neutral – a little flavor of simmering anger. She did not stop him however; she was not unaccustomed to pushing him out if she wanted him truly gone. A few times she had slammed the door in his face – so even if she appeared annoyed it was a tensile welcoming.

"_Yeah, yeah – you don't want me here; you hate my guts right now,_" he jabbered, closing the door behind him and shedding his jacket and shoes, "_and what, the next time I see you? You will be even angrier then!_"

"_I am not angry_"

"_Well, I'm goddamn angry_"

"_Of course you are, you idiot – you are always angry!_"

Tilting his head he regarded the red tint on her cheekbones – the very vivid shadows of frustration in her eyes, the tight-lipped mouth.

"_You want a repeat of 1998?_" he asked her, his voice tight; a low growl.

She shut her mouth, crossed her arms and seemed to simmer even more repressed fury. They rarely mentioned that year; it was a very sore wound. It was better to pretend it had never existed.

"_Look, it's been a couple of shitty days – let's chalk it down to stress."_

She harrumphed and seemed to be even more intent on glaring at him.

"_You are not even going to apologize?_" she asked him.

"_Are you?_" he retorted in the same tone.

Stalemate; that was where they ended when they were both too stubborn to acknowledge each other.

They continued to glare at each other, eyes tuned into a narrowed, annoyed look.

It quickly became a comical, absurd stare – he would have laughed if he was sure she would not take offense.

Instead he felt the corners of his mouth lift – a little indulgent smile. She grinned back; it was more a little show of teeth than it was smiles of warmth. But it was a beginning – reconciliation was always tenuous and something that started slowly. Sometimes they propelled it along by pretending nothing had happened; sometimes they merely tried to forget whatever had happened. It was easier to forget than to apologize sometimes.

A smile could hold a thousand little apologies in it.

Her body ceased to be a statue; he watched as tension slowly started evaporating around the small lines around her mouth, how her eyes turned a bit brighter – tension was always a very vivid impression in her body. It was always easy to see when it left her.

She turned on her heel and went in the direction of her kitchen - he followed behind her, watching her closely. She was wearing a faded t-shirt and a pair of loose pajamas pants; nothing form-fitting but her figure was a familiar soothing outline anyway. She looked even smaller than she was.

"_Thomas home?_" he enquired, watching as she took two glasses out of a cupboard and opened her fridge. Mischa was on an interrail adventure in Europe and Thomas was, as Sharon commented lately, always at some party or other – he had just turned seventeen. Mischa had always liked him but he was never sure about Thomas; he had a nagging thought that the kid had inherited Sharon's ability to be obscure like no one else – those two were like two peas in a pod. Maybe it was just the grouchy nature of teenagers but the kid had a tendency to hang his shoulders and glare from under a curtain of hair – whether the glare was more pronounced when he was visiting he did not know.

Sometimes he took the boy to a ballgame – along with his own younger son; not an often occurring event but it had happened a few times. The two boys, one year apart in age, got along, joking and grinning – and yet he knew the kid was suspicious of what was the deal with him and his mother; in that aspect Thomas was protective of Sharon. It was not a bad thing – just a little nuance. Whereas Mischa sent him postcards – and called to enquire whether he was treating her mother alright; always with a light teasing tone. He adored the both of them; always nostalgically thinking about them as two small kids.

Sharon placed a glass of sparkling water in front of him; a gesture of armistice.

"_He's out – a friend's place_"

He nodded. Even if he was a bit of an idiot sometimes he was not completely shitty; he was not about to start anything with her kid in the house. That would be an unmitigated disaster – he had no desire to bring her kids into the complicated mess. He sipped the water, watched as she poured a glass for herself.

"_You're insufferable_," she told him, her eyes watching him just as intensely.

"_You're a goddamn nuisance_," he delivered back.

Her lips curled.

"_Bastard,_" she retorted, voice sounding lightly amused.

He grinned.

Sometimes they did not need to apologize out loud; sometimes all it took was smiles.

He took another swallow of the water; leaned against the counter – trying to figure out her eyes. Her eyes were always foremost obscure; he had gathered it was their natural hue. It was the color that accompanied obscure that he tried to detect – always a little glint of something else in between opaque.

They were not completely out of the woods yet; she was still wary.

"_I was going to clear him from the start_," she told him, voice edgy.

"_You could have told me._"

"_No; I could not. It's a closed investigation. I'm bound by law not to talk about it with outsiders._"

It should not surprise him but she was adamant when it came to following every little procedure, particular when it came to conduct. He arched an eyebrow; there was a certain glint in her eyes when she started her now infamous tirade on the law and what she was bound to do by all those precious regulations. It was a glint he came to know as something caught between amusement and surrender. Sometimes he found her amusing as well in her I.A. role – as long he was not on the receiving end.

"_You could have tried to not behave like a wounded bear, you know,_" she told him – coming closer and uncrossing her arms, "_You should be able to handle your anger better._"

His eyes widened, his mouth curled into disbelief; "_My anger!_"

She smiled, "_Yes, your anger lieutenant_"

"_I was not the one practically stomping my foot or trying to pull rank on everyone_"

"_It's a requirement everytime I have to investigate anyone in robbery/homicide – you're all on the defensive before I can even utter a single word_."

He pulled a little grimace; "_No one to blame but yourself._"

She crossed her arms again.

"_Really,_" she drew out, the tone half annoyed.

"_Really,_" he imitated voice equally hard.

They could go on like this for an eternity – it was a little fact that sometimes snuck up on him. Even if reconciliation took an insurmountable long time they always ended up in a little familiar place; they always ended in a familiar embrace. Today however, he was impatient – caught in the desire to skip ahead of all the trouble and merely plunge right into being connected with her.

So, leaving his glass on the counter, he approached her; let his hand settle along her jaw and throat.

"_I really am sorry,_" he told her, his voice low and serious.

Her lips curled into a full smile.

"_Me too_"

Maybe they had learnt from the past; it was better to let pride be – it was better to leave anger out of the equation. Otherwise it was bound to cause a rift between them. The one from 1998 had not mended yet; it was like an infection – dormant for the time being.

It was not unlike a headache when he thought about that disastrous year; he had ended up hurting her immensely – not something he was proud of. It had been like a raging river – it was no good trying to swim upstream. They had both followed the currents – both in the relentless grip of anger and hurt. The wrong word at the wrong time – and it crashed into them both with force. He had hurt her then; he knew that. She had fought back and managed to sink her teeth in; hurt him back as well.

His other hand came up and caught her jaw as well, he leaned down and kissed her, full on the lips – intensely catapulted into serenity the moment she kissed him back, her hands landing so softly in his hair, pulling him closer. It was a little intricate part of her he adored; she was rarely rough with touch. Always soft, little tender touches – sometimes they evolved and became intense and impatient. Roughness only came from words and tones.

"_I'm sorry about what I said,_" he told her in between a kiss, "_you know me, I'm a complete buffoon when it comes to diplomacy_"

She laughed against his lips, "_True_"

Stroking the soft skin behind her ears, fingers into her hair – he pushed his body further into her, pushed a leg in between hers; backing her into the kitchen counter behind them. Anchoring them together – touch was as soothing as smiles between them when it came to reconciliation. Words drew them into different corners, words catapulted them apart – but touch would always bring them back together again. It was an infinite little fact that he treasured beyond comprehension; but oh god he always sought her skin – he always coveted the tingle of touching her.

"_You've been thinking about this,_" she breathed when his lips went in a pattern across her throat.

"_What?_" he was somewhat occupied, hands on the way under her faded t-shirt – bare flesh warm at his touch.

"_Fuc-king,_" she gasped, the word drawn out. Profanity always sounded so deliciously sinful coming from her lips. He still remembered vividly that one time she had said 'fuck' in the middle of climax; it had overthrown him and it had almost been too much.

"_Yes,_" he growled into her ear, tightening his grip on her, digging fingers into flesh and compressing himself further into her.

It was a lie. The truth was much more complicated and he knew she would not understand it. It was better to simply let her believe he imagined fucking her when they were caught in the middle of an argument. It was better to let her believe he wanted to fuck her senseless when she annoyed him. However it was not the essence of his thoughts when they exchanged tensile, angry words; then he felt overwhelmed by an ache – an urge to merely lie next to her in a bed, comforted by the warmth of each other and bed sheets. He was always consumed by a need to be tender; only it would not fit in with her perception. Of course he wanted to fuck her till she became too incoherent to sprout any angry words; till she forgot what had gotten her riled up in the first place. But mostly he just wanted to exist with her - peacefully.

"_God,_" she exclaimed, eyes crinkled as he hoisted her up on her counter, her legs going around his middle, "_you're impossible_"

Grinning, he drew a bit of flesh into his mouth, in between the sharp edges of his teeth, enjoying the little sound of pain escaping her throat, vibrating against his lips. He slid his lips down her neck, latched onto the thin skin along her collarbone, the bone beneath hard.

Her fingers travelled into his hair, reversed and came around his neck, in front of his chest as she started unbuttoning his shirt.

"_What about – John-whatshisname?_" he asked against the skin just behind her ear, hands splayed across her back, under the t-shirt – bare skin familiar.

"_Jeremy_," she corrected, her voice an annoyed vibration, a little puff of air that told him he was skirting on thin ice. Curious, he had a whole repertoire of little warning systems of what every little different breath of air meant and yet he always felt compelled to mostly ignore them. It was a curious thing. He supposed it was the same conundrum that made her wear grimaces and facades he did not care for, made her strive to anger him as well.

"_Whatever_," he mumbled.

"_Do you really think I would be kissing you if I was still with him?_"

Her eyes were angry again, hands on either side of his head as she tilted his head back so they could look at each other. Dark, swirling eyes – sinister in their hue.

He ignored her angry comment; instead he kissed her again – forcefully bringing his own lips unto hers.

"_I don't care_," he said when he broke apart from her, breathing against her lips. The truth was a bit more complicated than that – but again the truth was always a little hidden component of their relationship.

He still remembered that awful day in 1998 – how everything had turned upside down merely because of spoken words, merely because some words were apparently the key to a whole different world. A world of agony – a world where she had suddenly unleashed torrents of hurt on him – delivered to him in a stride as she catalogued every little mistake he had ever made, every little thing he had done to hurt her.

She had reeled off a nauseating list of all his faults.

There were some things in their lives that were hidden – hidden laws that made up the intricate little world of their relationship; in that aspect they were both collaterals. Responding to attack was a natural reaction; he had hurt her back – only somehow his words had been even more forceful, even more cruel.

It was the first time he had seen spring morning in her eyes and he had been to fault.

She had closed completely off – he was relocated to mere dust in her existence.

He had been too angry then to see the nuance, to reflect about what had happened. Naturally they had both moved on to other people – naturally the little nest of exclusiveness they had been swathed in had been shattered.

1998 had been a battle – it had been devastation.

It had been ugly.

They had never talked about it.

One day, after a whole year of silence, she had suddenly been on his doorstep – that hurt anguished look in her eyes – someone else had managed to hurt her more vividly than him. Something more devastating had happened and she had sought him out; he was not forgiven, he knew that. But he was welcome again in her life.

Her grudges might be intense and rough; but they never lasted indefinitely.

The whole ordeal had left them both rather raw.

He slid his hands around the sides of her abdomen, up along her ribcage – mesmerized and obsessed with the heavier breaths she took. Up to the swell of breasts – cupping and caressing as he slanted his mouth more firmly against hers.

No one else would be able to integrate themselves into her life like he; they were too entangled.

Jealousy would be pointless when they both met other people.

Jealousy was pointless; even if he did not want to possess her he knew she belonged to him.

They always ended up back together in the long run.

He imagined it was the pull of gravity; a little component of their cells that always pulled them back into orbit – always managed to tug on the strings that held them together. It was the gravity of unconditional love. She could pull his heart from his chest; rip it out and throw it away; he would still love her as intensely.

Gravity was a force to be reckoned with.

**/**


	10. Impetus to Linger

**/**

**Part 10: Impetus to linger**

**/**

It was the year 2005; and it was strange in nature, strange in hindsight – strange in its implication. In retrospect he had been in the grip of an impossible twist, an arrogant bastard – but he had not noticed it at the time. At the time he had been content.

Resentment and arrogance had not felt poisonous; they had merely accompanied the intense force of aggression he was already too familiar with. That he had been a complete and utter idiot; righteous and grumbling – a menace and a bully; well that was just a part of his nature. Flaws were always easy to spot; they were easy to regret in hindsight. Ironing out his flaws did not make them disappear altogether.

Flaws were an immense part of his framework, even if he was conscious of them – even if he tried to soften them. They were as much a comfort to him as they were an aggravation.

There had been a reason behind the madness, a reason he still found somewhat sensible. Imperfections always came out to play the moment they were urged on, the moment someone or something beckoned them to life. His own roared and came up from the depths, he welcomed them gladly – it was a suitable armor to dwell in after all. He never reacted well to being trod on – he did not react well to challenges being thrown at his feet like an offering. It really came down to the poor social skills of an outsider waltzing into his department and taking cases right out from under his nose – it came down to the fact that he could carry a grudge with a dense disposition.

It was the trouble of being overwhelmed by a feeling of superiority – a need to defend his territory. It needled him how Deputy Chief Johnson merely strode in from the outside, sudden high rank and a squad of her own – an accent that trickled his ears and an appearance that churned his stomach. It did not help that she stepped hard on everyone's toes with no hesitation at all – taking his cases and smiling in that condescending sugary way.

Still, despite the conflict of trying to undermine her, he was caught in a relatively calm sea. How could he not be calm when he had passed his ten year mark of sobriety? How could he not be calm when he had managed to solidify his relationship with his kids – when it blossomed and he no longer felt he was completely worthless in that regard?

His world was almost in a perfect balanced rhythm; the only little flaw that of anger simmering below – nestling whenever he contemplated the construction of major crimes, whenever he contemplated goddamn Deputy Chief Barbie as he called her in his head; it was one of the nicer titles he had assigned to her. Chief Bitch seemed just as appropriate.

There was a calmness to his relationship with Sharon as well. It surprised him but familiarity had dawned a sudden complacency in their midst; regardless of what would tip them off balance they seemed to zero in on equilibrium again. Oh they had quarrels that reminded him of roaring disaster, rough collisions at work but somehow they ended up exactly where they started, a thing mostly composed of calmness.

It was an unwavering foundation to fall back on; it brought as much trouble as it brought peace.

His bedroom had been a nest of calmness, enclosed in humidity and a feeling of being cut off from the rest of the world. It had been coated in tranquility.

Sharon sat atop him, thighs warm – hands alike warm as they traveled up his abdomen, forceful – warm and goddamn comforting around his cock. Intense in a slow uncurling, rocking at an almost sluggishly pace, grinding down in what really could not be described as a grind but more like an almost unperceivable tilt of her pelvis. Her eyes had been closed and her back arched, her mouth slightly apart as she had rocked against him – fingers digging painfully into his skin as if she was trying to transfer the pressure inside her onto him.

She was a conduit of sensation.

Fingers skirting around, in a pitter patter across his chest – coming to rest around the sides of his thighs, digging hard into his flesh whenever she came down on him – a little sigh of content escaping her when his cock hit home. His thumb was on her clit, the other hand running up and down in a calming pattern on her thigh; her mouth seemed to fall more and more apart the more he pushed the pad of fingers into her small bud.

It had been unhurried and glorious.

It had been calm; or at least that had been his impression.

However, now she had stopped, her eyes open in a very perturbed frown, lines crinkling her look into a glare. There was a little turn to her lips that surprised him; she was annoyed – why though he had no idea; he was hard inside her, fingers firmly upon her and circling. She had already climaxed once and he saw no reason for that little frown or the vivid ire in her eyes; gray swirls that reminded him of small kids plying apart the wings from insects.

That specific shade and he knew she was calculating something in her mind; whether it be a line of attack or something equally brutal – it always left him on the verge of anticipation; exhilaration not far behind. That look was more arousing than it was apprehensive; he always got a certain kick out of riling her up. A sentiment he knew she shared with him.

She tilted her head, kneading fingers into the sides of his stomach – a harder approach than the one she usually touched him with. A warning as much as it was a display of annoyance.

"_There's a new detective in my squad,_" she told him in a voice that was too neutral in context, a tone that she preferred to recite regulations in, preferred to reprimand in. A little flavor of something ominous in it – she was preparing to start a storm, preparing to battle out whatever had pulled her into stopping her movements. It was always a quiet and calm tone then, with just enough gravitas to lull you into a false sense of security – usually this was the tone that bore the most promise of danger.

He felt he had spent a lifetime trying to catalogue the different little inflections to her voice and what they meant in the bigger scheme; and somehow she always ended up surprising him. A peculiar thing but he always discovered something new every now and then. This tone it was an unusual blend, flavors of different emotions mixing and leaving him with the impression of annoyance and amusement.

Trying to soothe whatever had annoyed her, his hands came around her hips and dug into the skin as he pushed his hips upwards, enjoying the sudden little grunt that came from her throat at the thrust.

"_He's gorgeous,_" there was an undercurrent of sweetness to her voice now – a dreamlike quality and he looked on with disbelief; she was suddenly smiling and her eyes had that unique glint that told him she had nothing but unsavory thoughts. Her smile was only sweet in the way that sometimes poison can be sugary sweet like honey. It was a smile of danger – a sweet little voice that forebode only trouble.

"_You've got to be kiddin' me,_" he grumbled, but kept grounding their groins together, kept his hold on her hips strong, kept pulling her down meanwhile trying to reign in his thoughts and figure out what he had done to annoy her. Usually it was always an insignificant little thing, always something that evaded him.

"_I saw him… in the gym the other day, "_she paused to sigh,"_… topless_"

He arched an eyebrow; there was no mistaking that puff of air leaving her lips or the dark shadows gathering in her eyes, the curl to her lips. If he had not been buried in her, both of them naked and intertwined, envy would have invaded him in a force of anger; he would have snarled.

She was a goddamn ruthless warrior; she did not mind stripping his body of its flesh if she felt it an appropriate punishment – she did not mind tearing skin from muscle and bone, leaving him torn on the floor. It was an aspect of her he found both endearing and deplorable; he recognized it as her little way of situating herself in his life – he knew the more she ripped him apart, the more she cared.

It suited him fine; he was sure he gave back with equal vehemence.

She leaned forward, coming to align her upper chest with his, the impressions of breasts warm against him, the change in angle and he felt himself slide partway out of her.

"_I wanted to glide across his chest – Mmm… I'm telling you he's built like a damn fine Greek god,_" she whispered in his ear, loud and clear even if her voice had turned to a murmur and was so throaty he wanted to swallow it.

"_Why are you telling me this?_" his voice turned to a deep burr, on the brink of slamming hard into her – instead holding her hips steady and easing out and into her, his own hips strained with effort of not thrusting hard.

Usually they never shared information about other people with each other; merely the knowledge that sometimes there were other people was enough to light him on fire, a furnace of possession always burning deep in him even if he tried to ignore it. Just the notion that she let other men touch her – let other men fuck her; it was too much – better to pretend not to know about it.

There was no inner need to listen to her fantasies about other men; he would rather she keep them to herself – he did not tell her about his fantasies, he did not tell her about who he wanted to fuck; who he went out with and went home with. It was supposed to be an agreement they both treasured. Even the notion of sharing information like that was absurd. They were not exclusive per definition; at least not this year, at least not in this moment in their relationship. Exclusiveness was an off and on thing. However, they were exclusive when they were together, and he preferred it that way.

"_Why have you been grumbling about Deputy Chief 'Barbie' for the last half hour? Why, you are ranting about someone else and fucking me; I don't care for it!_" her words clear, broke through his reverie and he saw the line of her attack – saw her line of reasoning, heard the vibration of anger in her tone, knew it when she underlined 'fucking' with an extra deep connotation. "_You can grumble all you want but not in bed."_

Maybe he had ranted a bit too much about work, grumbled a bit too much about the new deputy chief.

Instead of apologizing he grinned wide, a leg against her hip so he could flip them over. The force of his weight pushing her into the mattress, his hands around her wrists, his body heavy on top – keeping her in place.

The ire in her eyes deepened but it was accompanied by her legs opened further and coming around his middle, soft. Annoyance suited her well when her cheeks were flushed from sex, her lips swollen and red – her eyes heavy in shadows. Small beads of perspiration lingering on her skin, a shine to her that was both heavy and clingy; they had lingered in his bedroom for most of the afternoon – night had slowly settled.

Lips met halfway, teeth clicking and tongues tangling, small whispers of moans in their throats as he thrust into her, fast and hard – her legs anchoring around him with angry surrender, a tight embrace, the muscles of her thighs hard.

"_Andy,_" she breathed, her voice coming out in a short gasp, followed by air. Eyes seeking his, mouths landing on the nearest little patch of skin, pulling lips in between lips, trying to settle a softer approach in their kiss while he continued a hard rhythm, her legs tightening.

Tightening his grip around the bones of her wrists, he pressed her further into the mattress, trying to push her further in as he pounded into her – he felt the strength of her muscles become tense, her forearms strained – her biceps standing out as she tried to push against him. Her heel dug into the flesh of his ass with a forceful insistence; he was uncertain whether it was meant to push him further into her or whether it was meant to hurt him back. He chose the first; sliding out before he thrust into her again, enjoying the small quiver in his groin – felt small answering quivers in her inner muscles surrounding his cock.

Her other heel dug into his ass as well – harder, more adamant.

"_Don't stop_" she started, then drew a little inhalation, "_God damn_"

Profanities always got to him, curled into his being with a delightful little twist – forced his mouth from her lips and downwards, latching onto the skin of her throat with his teeth; he bit into her neck, delighted to feel her moan beyond the skin, to feel the tautness in her body as she writhed beneath him.

It was one of those times where she insisted on roughness – he felt only too happy to oblige. He was only too caught up in emotion anyway, already filled to the brim with a need to explode – better he fuck her than continue to vent his frustration about the new commanding officer of major crimes. Better he let himself compress into this little moment – it would pull every last little tendril of tension in his body away – would strip till him till he lay bare, panting and exhausted.

Additionally, he needed to fuck the notion of this new detective out of her head.

It was a matter of pride, mostly – he knew she was only goading him, knew she was only making a point. She had no want to listen to him rant about another woman – even if it was one he had no intention of fucking.

Traveling down from her neck and the sore flesh, his mouth landed around one nipple, drew the little bud into his mouth and sucked hard, kept it in his mouth, tongue circling. Afterwards he jarred his teeth along the inner slope of her breasts, enjoying being able to feel the movement of her shaky breaths.

"_How old is he?_" he whispered when he slid his mouth up along her throat again, going behind her ear – and ending up drawing her earlobe into his mouth – pulling it with his teeth.

"_Oh get a grip, old man,_" she moaned.

"_That young!_"

"_I was making a point_"

"_Oh – so he's made-up_," it inflicted him with breath, almost expelling relief from his lungs.

"_Yes, yes,_" she pouted, her lips coming together in a little o that he would never admit he found adorable, "_now please, go on – move your hips, honey_"

"_Whatever you say, Ma'am,_" he replied in the same mocking tone, rocking against her again.

"_C'mon Lieutenant, put some integrity to it,_" she teased, her voice light but strained from pressure in her thorax; he could feel the tension as his mouth travelled from her ear, down her throat, past the junction between her two clavicles before coming to her breasts again, once again sucking nipples into his mouth and enjoying her groans, rocking into her.

He let go of her wrists, the skin pale from his tight hold – he let his fingers run up and down, caressing before they travelled into her hair, tangled in among the thick hair – brought her head to his as he landed his lips on hers, growled into her mouth, grinding mouths as much together as their groins were grinding together.

Her fingers trailed up his back – came to the hair at the back of his head; a sudden hard grip in among the short strands, painful.

He broke apart, moved a little breath away from her – looked into her eyes.

How she could wear a small smile and still look incensed; it was a mystifying little detail. He had stopped moving, maybe that was the reason for the annoyance in the depths of her eyes – maybe it was the reason for that silly little smile.

He leaned down and kissed her again, anger leaving him swiftly, tension softening; a languor to their lips against each other.

Angry sex never seemed to be a thing that kept on being angry. It always trickled into comfort and slowness in the end – or it became too poignant in its touch.

Sometimes when anger came into their midst, he would get caught up in a horrible little feeling; was he any different than Michael? He never told her about his little insecurities in this aspect; he was afraid of what she would say. It had taken him years to wring information out of her; it had taken a long time to finally understand what made her propel into his life in the first place, what made her seek him out.

For many years it had been the assumption that she sought him out when Michael let her down; it was partly true. But there had been a nuance to this he had not been able to comprehend before the day she had told him she loved him; afterwards he was left with a new understanding – a more comprehensible outlook on what they meant.

"_I love you,_" she now told him in a light voice, her eyes serious, "_even if you are a grouch – even if you are" _she laughed against his lips, her fingers in a soothing pattern down his back, "_bad-tempered like no one else._"

Curious, he could count the number of times she had told him and even now if felt like an impact. It was not the first time but it was still a rare little thing, it was not something she flung out every now and then.

This time it was different. Love being expressed was about timing and context; this time it was plain. It was more poignant than the other times she had told him – calmer; as if she was stating the fact that it was raining. The added little merriment to her tone, it slid under his skin and lingered. No one had ever told him they loved him in spite of all his small little imperfections but then again no one had ever stroked his hair and told him he was not worthless, told him that he was not to fault – she had been the foremost reason he had not drowned completely in a bottle all those times he had staggered drunk to her house.

Back then however he had not been able to see the nuance; it was vivid now – it had even been vivid back then.

He remembered a conversation they had not so long ago; he had unwittingly tried to pull out of her why she was still separated – why she was not pushing for divorce papers. It had eluded him; it had nestled within him and he had felt like a substitute – a worrying nauseating feeling within. It was strange when he wanted to pull her in and hold her close; strange when she skirted from his touch – sometimes belonging to him and sometimes far out of reach.

"_You can love more than one person at a time,_" she had told him. One little sentence, a warm voice and she was able to impress upon him a whole spectrum of enlightenment.

It was not about loving one thing more than another; it was not about belonging to someone more or less – she did not love him less or more than Michael. In that aspect he was a different thing; a separated thing that had its own compartment in her heart.

It had soothed him; maybe he was rooted in the left chambers of her heart – Michael would be in the right. Both components essential but not alike in their essence; he liked to think he was the brute strength of her left ventricle – expelling blood with force and animation; it would account for the devastation when they did not work properly. When the left ventricle failed it was a dizzying concept whereas the notion of the right ventricle was different; it was an undercurrent, hidden whereas the left was more vibrant in both its distress and in its proper function. The right ventricle was alike a congestion when it was out of balance, the left was breathlessness.

Curious; he liked to think she leapt between the different compartments of his own heart; sometimes she was the force that kept life flowing, sometimes she was the foundation of quietude – always flickering between being forceful and lingering; but never not constant; flickering between grounding him and pushing him.

Tickling the back of her knee, he took both of her legs and settled them across his shoulders, expelling heavy breaths as he started again; another rhythm this time – still hard and fast but enveloped by a little sweet touch along her legs.

However absurd it was, he did not mind that she still loved Michael; he knew it was a thing she would not let go of – eventually though it would fade. It would dwindle, maybe it would not altogether disappear but he knew it would be a small little undercurrent – weak. In comparison he knew he was at the other end of the spectrum; flourishing and evolving, even if sometimes their rhythm was a bit absent. Absence in her life did not mean he faded; he was just as vivid when they came together again.

It was a rather unconventional relationship when he found himself ruminating about it. He treasured it nonetheless.

Groins meeting groins, the sound was loud and mechanical – hurried; but it was the outside. Inside it was mountains rumbling in earthquakes, it was the ground heaving and roaring, readying to be split apart and cast around.

Outside it was bodies rocking against each other, rough in appearance and in stark contrast to slow. Inside it was a connection of warmth and the little tight ball of pleasure soaring in the horizon, coming unbearably closer and closer.

She had already climaxed once; he had been adamant between her legs, mouth on her clit before he had been unclothed himself. Unsurprisingly he had been too angry after leaving work, and he had merely wanted to be able to listen to her moans as she came. Now he could feel her trembling beneath him, could feel the strain in her body – the stretching and recoiling of muscles as she tried to alleviate some of the pressure.

Pressure building within was twofold; always caught in between wanting to let it steam out in climax and the need for it to continue building and rising without release. He was undecided whether he wanted release or whether he wanted to let it keep going, inevitably more unbearable the longer it kept spiraling beyond release.

There was a tint to pleasure that was painful the longer it kept on building; a tint that was unbearable but mesmerizing – the notion that it would never come to an end. He liked the notion of infinity; not in the immortal meaning of never-ending age – but in the notion that sometimes a moment was drawn out. Sometimes a little moment in time seemed to hover in a long drawn out breath; unbearable in its motionless, in its abrupt stop – in its lingering.

He liked the notion of lingering when it came to her.

Another realization had hit him; something he had been able to see suddenly – it was obvious once sobriety had permeated him to the core. They were able to rely on their friendship in a way they would never have been able to if they had not had a platonic relationship all those years back. It was a comforting little part of them; it kept them more entwined than he had imagined. The dark notion that she was still separated it had diminished and he barely gave that status any thought anymore; it was inconsequential – as she had tried to tell him a number of times. The distinction between separation and divorce had nothing to do with him – it had nothing to do with their love.

He slowed down – changed the rhythm to a slow glide; the sudden change instantly reverberating in another sensation. She let out a drawn-out moan – a tone that slipped away in the room but left an impression of its existence. He impressed himself into letting his hands dig into her hips – her legs over his shoulders, her heels into the muscles of his back.

"_You should get riled up more often,_" she panted and he answered with a grunt.

Fucking, he thought, was a wonderful thing – even more when it was composed of a familiarity that propelled you into lingering.

It had an impetus then; a very compelling fragment that felt not dissociated but cohesive.

Going from slow to fast again, holding them together with his hands on her hips and the momentum of his pounding; she came unexpectedly. Usually there was a certain shimmer around her body and a certain tension; this however came all of a sudden and brought him with it.

She seemed surprised as well, her body tense then slack with a surprised flavor – her eyes wide and clear when she opened them.

A smile blossoming on her lips when he felt his own strength waning and he let go, coming to rest on top of her, heavy and exhausted.

A deep kiss, her lips seeking out his as she stroked his back, stroked his neck – came to rest calmly in his hair.

"_I love you,_" he grunted into her skin, warm and slightly damp; he liked the sheen of exertion on her.

She hummed; and he listened to the voice. He could linger in the tone.

If she would let him he could linger in her existence.

**/ **


	11. Roots in the deep

**/**

**Part 11: Roots in the deep. **

**/**

It was the year 2010; and it was a steady rhythm. It was the seamless flow of water, solid and infinite.

It was a year he found generally balanced; tranquil and mostly a world of motionless contentment. It was a ceaseless little river of content streams, water particles dancing in among each other, assured in their existence – infinite in its continuing flow – tranquil in its nature.

It was a time where he languored in his existence; it afforded him no apparent troubles or aches but for the occasional little rippling in the otherwise calm waters.

It was a funny little thing but major crimes seemed to collide with fid an impossible number of times; in the beginning it had been an invasion, forceful in magnitude, almost devious in repercussions. Sharon swept into their world with a nonchalance that came across as arrogance to everyone – most had no idea how to comprehend her façade so it was easier to chalk it all down to coldness and indifference; aloofness was a well suited coat to wear and one he knew she languored in. It was one that forced people to underestimate her.

As much as everyone had their own little tendencies, she had her own as well. Funny, even if he noticed the more vibrant glint behind her eyes and even if he knew she had a role to play, it aggravated him. It was bound to; she stepped across people's toes in a way that not even the chief would have managed; with a natural flair. She was as unwavering in her disposition as the Chief; a solid force to come up against.

Naturally he took to eye rolling and grumbling; it was two counterforces he could rely on; that and narrowed eyes and hard looks would convey a thousand little things; his aggressive disposition had always fit well against her.

In the beginning he had clenched his jaw, joined the banter about grumbling about the 'wicked witch' – all with good intentions. In the beginning it had been precarious, not unlike the collision of two different storms – hot, cold – it was bothersome either way.

Funny, because no one suspected the two of them were more friendly than they let on – they never caught onto the disparaged glint Sharon would sent him or the little lingering glance they would share – no one figured that hard words and raised voices had become natural to their work personas; it afforded no bigger troubles than what they had already faced. Sometimes he compared their combative natures to a little dance; dark creatures were always a bit devious in that aspect, circling each other.

Foremost, the profound basis for still being able to linger in their little secret relationship was the fact that Sharon clashed with the Chief; a fact he found entertaining. It was almost with a bit of relief that he could stand back; he did not have to bring a full force of defense himself. No, he could merely watch and once every now and then give a little grunt of disagreement or an eye roll. It became more entertaining to watch the two women struggle. It was a relief to let someone else try to fence with Sharon, and watch them struggle as much as he would have struggled. He could watch on the sidelines, share a joke or two with the boys – and later on he could share a laugh with Sharon – or a good back massage all in regards to what mood she seemed to inhabit when he confronted her.

It became a spectator's sport, in that way that he could lean back and observe; he had never taken the opportunity to watch her from afar before – it bore a little twinge of something bittersweet. It afforded him a little window into a different portion of her – a part of her he had tried to comprehend for a long time but it was as fleeting as water between your hands – it only ever left a wet impression behind. Apparently she instilled curiosity in him, even after all these years.

Why, he could even yell at her – voice raw and forceful, he could roll his eyes and grumble about her when she invaded their squadroom; she did not mind. If anything she seemed to bask in it when he resorted to annoyance. She always wore a little smirk at the corners of her lips, in her high heels and well-tailored suits or dresses; she was mostly amused by their antics – he could tell even if she chose to appear nonchalant, even if she appeared disparaged.

She smirked and he sneered; it was their little shared ritual. Predators acknowledging each other, acknowledging the fact that they were both capable of the same degree of deviousness, only different in their mode of attack, different in their approach to obstacles.

He learned little tidbits about her from watching; a fact that surprised him – it had not occurred to him that there was features of her he could learn from distancing himself; it was like taking a step away and watching her roam around. It was as intense an insight as if he had been in the collision himself; intense in the way that he wanted to push the Chief aside and do the argument himself; why he knew exactly which buttons to push and exactly what to say to annoy her even further; something the Chief lacked.

It evolved; it was bound to. Even Sharon could not remain an antagonist for long, even if she tried hard – she had that tendency to slip under skin and linger, eventually everyone became familiar with her disposition and her presence and she did not evoke the same resentment as in the start. She could still grate everyone's nerves raw – but it had become an accepted fact – she was the wicked witch after all.

She became that little dangerous thing on the periphery – not a complete outsider. A mysterious presence; the boys wondered about her – he felt an inner need to talk about her, but it would be too much of a surprise so he kept his mouth shut. He did not invite the others into the little details about her; they had no need to know that she had worked in narcotics, no need to know about her marital status; and most certainly no need to know he ended up naked and entangled with her everytime fid and major crimes ended up colliding.

Provenza seemed to have enough stories to share around, grumbling about what she had done to him and his old partner. Sanchez had heard a thing or two by the water cooler – really it was more entertaining to listen to their stories; laugh about the inconsistencies and try not to correct them.

Rumor was a strange thing; Sharon had apparently collected her own little nest of it – filled with tidbits of truth but a majority of far-fetched stories prevailed. It was strange listening to others talk about her and yet he was used to it; she had been in I.A for far too long now. If no one had screwed up recently the talk always riveted to I.A – and she was a prominent figure, so naturally the talk turned to her. She had a natural proclivity for arousing interest in people.

Sometimes though it was on the tip of his tongue; the urge to somehow just let a little story out – to share something about her. But the feeling was always overridden by the more vivid, tense emotion of wanting her entirely to himself; it came down to the fact that he had no desire to share her with anyone. Everything he had learned about her, everything he knew; it was hard-won – he was not about to merely let something slip to others because of a passing fancy.

That and there was something alluring about having a relationship in the dark; secrets were powerful in that context and even more when you lived in one. It was not a conscious effort to hide; they merely slithered around on the periphery, both of them, joined in a little shared laugh about the obliviousness of everyone else.

Intimacy was a frail being; even if they had cultured it, even if it had become too familiar to be broken – it was still engrained in him to tread carefully when it came to her. Secrecy secured them a certain degree of protection. That and they could hardly start kissing in the middle of work; foregoing telling others about their shared bond was as easy as letting your body flow with the current in a stream; needless and pointless to fight against nature.

It reminded him what you could do with perceptions; how others could be led to believe what they wanted, how you could direct everyone around you till they perceived you the way you wanted. Sharon did not mind the gossip and the ridicule; she did not mind the many nicknames – when it came to business everyone knew she meant trouble. Everyone knew they were knee-deep in shit when her voice turned up a volume; everyone knew they were about to be thrown to the wolves when her voice turned low.

It became a little habitual greeting and acknowledgment between them; antagonism and smug superiority were really only foreplay. Whether it was feigned or whether it was real and powerful, it always ended up being some kind of foreplay.

It was the essence of familiarity, he decided. He slid into in his relationship with Sharon; it seemed to exude the same little essence of seamlessness. He felt himself lingering. Surprisingly he felt her lingering as well – felt her seeking him out. There was a tint of fluency to their connection that had not been there in the beginning, a little flavor of something having sunk roots deep into the ground and was now content in this existence. Intertwining roots, he imagined, deep into dank, dark soil – too deep to uproot, deep enough to allow a certain degree of freedom – comfortable in the way that your childhood house seems to be a favorite fairytale when you pass it by.

Presently however, he was half-sitting in his bed with a sullen grimace – a headache behind his eyes, his arm in a sling and the general overall experience of feeling bruised and battered tormenting him. He was too old to be fighting it out street-like; too old to get punched and knifed. Too old to be losing that much blood – he felt horrible. Tired, nauseous and of course angry – why, how else was he supposed to feel when not only had he been attacked but likewise overthrown by Sharon in full fid-mode; a different assault, in his own squadroom, waving around his jacket like it was everyone's business.

He knew his jacket was too dense – she knew it; no reason to flaunt it for everyone to see. No reason to attack him again and put his conduct into questioning. The Chief had been there; otherwise he was not sure what he would have done – possibly he would have tackled her into a wall and demanded she shut up, his lips a perfect tool to accomplish just that. He had seriously considered just kissing her anyway; she would have been catapulted into anger if he had, she would have lost her calmness. Yet, he had settled for a derisive glare, trying to convey she was not his favorite person at that moment; she had merely glared back, that indifferent attitude to anger that was her specialty. It had only incensed him further; but he had relented and gone.

It needled him, even now at home and having time to contemplate. She was bound to investigate him like everyone else – he was still adamant she could have been a bit more cordial about it. Everything annoyed him though; maybe she was just a collateral and ended up being another reason for his simmering anger. Truth be told he was angrier with the situation, with himself – with the fact that he had been too close to lying next to his car in a pool of blood. Anger made sure, however, that he did not linger too much on this fact. If he started contemplating his own mortality it would only deteriorate, he would end up a despondent bawling idiot.

It forced to admit the truth; he was maybe in a slight brooding mood.

When he heard his front door opening, heard the clicking of familiar heels coming into his hallway, he did not feel up for a visit. Especially when he knew with a frightening certainty that she was bound to open her mouth and talk, she was bound to either rip wounds apart again or – even worse – she would be achingly sweet. If she was mute and merely snuggled into his side, comforting him without any words or looks; he would not have minded so much. That, however, was impossible. She was rarely silent; and even when she did not expel words, her eyes was expressive.

She tip toed into his bedroom – when she saw him half reclining on his bed, pillow behind him, open eyes – she came further in; the same outfit as the one she had worn when he last saw her. It was still immaculate – nothing wrinkled about her look, not even a little desperate shine of having worked nonstop for too many hours. He only knew she was tired by the little tell of her hair; slightly ruffled, as if she had been running a hand through it a number of times.

He felt almost bad; she had no outlet for letting her emotions show – she could not touch him in front of the Chief and Provenza when he had been in the hospital bed – she could not soothe him and herself with touch. Deep down he knew it was the reason she had been, albeit a bit strange to the others, cordial but professional in her conduct; both at the hospital and later on. Her hair would look flawless to outsiders, why it fell softly along her cheeks, down her neck – tumbled around in a slight curl at the end; but what looked constructed to others looked out of order to him.

She arched an eyebrow, "_No need to look so glum – I come in peace_"

He continued to glare at her; the same barely restrained angry look he had given her throughout this whole ordeal. It was a wonder she had yet to snap at him; a wonder she had not yelled at him yet. If the roles had been reversed he would have resorted to an angry outpour of loud words; he would have shown emotion in the only possible outlet he could, the foundation he always fell back on. If the roles had been reversed – now that would have given him pause. It was something he did not want to linger on; he was certain it would have been a disaster – he was not accustomed to the same composure as her. He would have alternated between deep panic and manic anger.

"_God, I'm famished,_" she ignored him – coming close and depositing a little chaste kiss on his brow; the one that was not cracked and glued together by butterfly band aids. Her hand stroked along his neck, soft and soothing; not that he would admit it or let his frown disappear.

It was one of those times where he wanted to nestle into an embrace but felt equally compelled to not be near her; a contradictive feeling. As much as he wanted her touch he likewise felt repelled; it was a strange notion – it was a strange emotion. However much he did not feel up for her visiting he knew without a doubt he would have been livid had she not shown up. Once he got past the matter of pride and hurt, the matter of anger and feeling battered; he would seek her presence with an ache – with a potent embrace.

She shed her coat – laying it haphazardly across the back of a chair, eyeing him with a look that told him she was in an obliging mood – otherwise she would not tolerate his petulance. The little upturn to her lips was warm and comforting; assuring and he knew, eventually, she would end up next to him, in his bed – whispering words of comfort and lulling him to sleep. He hoped so; his body was aching and he desperately wanted to be able to sleep.

Insomnia plagued him more than he would care to admit; he tried to alleviate it with exhaustion – being a workaholic helped most of the times. Tonight, however, there was nothing to settle his mind on that would not lead to anxiety and second-thoughts; she would calm him down in that aspect and lull him to sleep with a skill she seemed to inherently inhabit in regards to him.

Her soft touch left him and he watched her disappear; going into his kitchen he assumed. A bit of time passed and then he heard the small sound of his microwave oven. He grumbled to himself, and then suddenly aware of what was in his fridge he grimaced.

"_Please tell me you're not eating my risotto,_" he raised his voice so it carried into his kitchen, kept it in an irritated tone.

He heard her answering laugh; he sighed.

When she came in with a bowl of steaming risotto, a spoon in her mouth it only managed to put a more pronounced pout in his face. First accusing him of being a brute – and now she was pilfering his food. She tilted her head as she regarded him, and then proceeded to put another spoonful of risotto into her mouth. He decided to ignore her; kept silent and ended up staring at a spot somewhere beyond her shoulder.

She put the bowl next to his bed, on his nightstand; next to a glass of water he had put there himself along with a little bottle of painkillers.

He was offered another smile before she started rummaging around his drawers – within a small moment she found a faded, large t-shirt. Consequently it was the one she somehow always ended up parading around in when she visited; he had come to think of it as hers – it even smelled like her, however much he seemed to wash it. He did not mind.

"_Eat,_" she ordered him, pointing at the bowl where there was still plenty of his risotto left.

Then she left again, a smile thrown over her shoulder before she went to his bathroom.

When he heard the sound of his shower being turned on, he sat up a bit straighter and reached out for the bowl with his good arm, balancing it on his lap. Reflecting, he looked around his bedroom not really focusing though.

Mostly he wanted to join her in the shower, slide his body into alignment with hers and be able to integrate his whole being into simply being naked with her. It would calm him down; he knew that. It would not be possible this time however, what with all the bandages and his aching skin and muscles – sore joints and bruises. Additionally it was an almost certainty that she would kick him out and tell him to go lie down. He was still angry at her as well; so he opted for grumpiness – opted for eating his risotto with vehemence.

Shoving the spicy, creamy rice into his mouth and barely chewing before he swallowed. Still, he was not too angry to not leave a bit behind for her. He knew she was starving when it was the first thing she did; going straight for his fridge was one of those little things she did when she visited and she was on the point of fainting. There was plenty in the bowl; he was sure she had already consumed half his orange juice; the carton would be half empty when he looked tomorrow. He did not really mind.

She came into his bedroom again, this time only in his too baggy t-shirt, fresh wet hair and a little smile. She plopped down on his bed, next to him, curling around his side – not close enough to touch but close enough to elicit a presence of warmth.

He looked sideways; she was studying him, head in hand, leaning on her elbow.

She smiled wider when his eyes caught hers.

He took another spoonful of risotto, deliberately enjoying it with a low growl.

She rolled her eyes, turned on her back and pushed a couple of pillows behind her head.

"_You're cleared, you know that, right?_"

He huffed.

"_Pouting does not become you_"

He felt almost inclined to retort back that bitchiness did not become her but he held his tongue. It was another certainty; he would not win any fight between them now, not in this state – it would be pointless to start one. She would tear him down in a second.

"_I would give you a blowjob_"

He turned his head sideways, forgetting to glare – he felt rather thrown off course by her comment – even more thrown off by the mischief in her eyes, the sweet way she bit into her lower lip, expectant – waiting for him to gather that she was trying to cheer him up – that she was resorting to teasing because she knew it was an endearingly little rare thing he liked about her.

She smiled sweetly, then "_But I'm not sure you have enough blood left in your body to get it up_"

"_You're awful,_" he told her, but could not keep his lips from curling into a smile.

She smiled wider and he caught his own mouth returning the tender acknowledgement.

"_Raincheck then?_"

"_Sure, honey,_" she laughed.

His anger was not really with her, a fact she always seemed to know before he acknowledged it himself. Sometimes she knew him too well; it was an annoying reality – but mostly, in hindsight, it was a glorious thing. Few people knew him that well; few had a front row seat to all the little facets of him – whether it be the good or the bad, the deplorable or the well-intentioned.

She scooted back and sat up next to him – stole the bowl from his lap and took a spoonful. He, on the other hand, sank further down, careful of not jostling the arm that was in a sling too much. Being able to lie down, it was wonderful – even in the light of his body protesting. But it protested at everything; it was in agony over even breathing.

Fingers strode through his hair, tender and gentle in their caress; her touch instilled a calmness in him – a serenity he would otherwise not have been able to garner by himself.

He listened to her eat, the sounds miniscule while her fingers continued to soften through his hair, every now and then trailing along his temple – warm against his skin. He could feel another shift in the mattress, felt her lean into him as she put the bowl back on the nightstand. Rearranging, he scooted into her side, leaning his good side against her body, keeping his injured arm free. The stitching in his abdomen stretched and stung at the motion but quickly subsided, a dull pain that would be a constant little thing for a while he knew.

A dull ache that would be in his body for weeks, at the least. He was after all too familiar with knife wounds, too familiar with a bruised and battered body and how long that persistent dull ache would accompany him. Sharp, jabbing pain that turned into something else, not less in its impact even if it became less noticeable upon movement.

Her fingers dug more firmly into his hair, at the back of his nape – palms flat against his skull, keeping him close.

"_Next time, will you try not to scare me half to death,_" her voice was low – still soft, the little tone of slight distress was noticeable however.

"_You could have fooled me,_" he mumbled into her chest, a little lie. Even if he had been on the brink of fainting – he had fainted, he amended – he had still been able to detect the worry in her eyes as she had come around the ambulance doors, her hand hard against his shoulder as she kept him from falling flat on his face. She had been professional – she needed to oversee the crime scene – and even if her composure had been marble he had still been able to acknowledge the look in her eyes – wary worry, with just a slight panic buried very deep. He was only able to see it though since he knew what to look for. Others would find her uncompromising as steel, hard-edged and unapproachable – they would find her exuding the same emotion that she always was surrounded in. He was privileged in being able to read her.

She gave a little sigh; it flittered into his skin at his temple – her mouth close, "_Are you going to be passive-aggressive nonstop now?_"

He nodded but foregone answering; maybe the close call with death had been a bit more profound than he gave it credit for; it was easy to bury it as long as they had worked on finding out who had attacked him and who had orchestrated it. Now, however, there was only the stillness of the night and the quietude of being alone. It was overwhelming then.

He nestled closer to her, his side protesting.

"_Okay_," she whispered and it was more her tone and the motion of her touch that was comforting; soft and understanding.

Later; it was only when he woke up that he realized he had been able to fall asleep. Wounds aching woke him up; he had a vague notion that he had not slept as long as he wished but far longer than was usual for him. His head throbbed and normally he would have dulled it with painkillers but the sensation of being in a warm, hot embrace – the drowsiness of coming out of sleep was too enticing to let go.

If he jostled around his head would hurt even more and the rest of his body would soon then follow with vibrations of their own pain to accompany; his arm felt numb for the moment – thankfully. It was a too comforting position, nestled into her body and being able to detect the little beating of her heart, faint and with long pauses; she was deep into the realm of sleep still. The rise and fall of her chest was like a little reminder; soft like her heartbeat and with just long enough pauses to make him hold his own breath to fall into her rhythm.

When he found himself waking before her, when he caught himself watching her sleep, he was overcome by a peculiar, estranged little thought. It did not bring him peace to watch; not in the way it usually did to watch someone sound asleep, no worries to detect on their face. No, it was bittersweet. It was always a little moment that propelled him into a whirlpool of dangerous thoughts – watching her sleep and he inevitably found himself thinking about watching her sleep, every day – all year; till they grew old – well older.

It was a ridiculous notion, a little daydream; one that he derisively snorted at but when he got trapped in the moment with her, it felt nothing short of poignant.

He had to remind himself to merely watch her, stop with imagery of wishes; merely be content in the moment.

It was not a dilemma or even a problem; it was a rare thing to be propelled into such thoughts. It was something that only really happened when something stirred the calm waters. Reflecting about his own mortality – having been too close to that rim where there was no going back – it was naturally a trigger, initiating a thought process he otherwise steered clear off.

She inhaled; a slow process that he only felt, ear close to her chest.

He liked to think that sometime, somehow they would sink even deeper roots. For the moment he was content with the way they were.

**/ **


End file.
